G I Joe Season 3-5
by continuityerror
Summary: The finale is here! Falcon remains under Cobra control, duped into staging a jailbreak for none other than Cobra Commander himself. Can the Joes reprogram their lieutenant, or will the most unexpected snake of them all have the final laugh? Meanwhile, Snake Eyes joins Jinx in unlocking the mystery of her family—and their connection to the killer known as Storm Shadow.


[REDACTED] SEASON 3.5 ENDINGS WITHOUT WORLDS

 _A novel by Gene Kendall_

This is a work of parody. The author does not claim copyright ownership to any character featured in this work. He is also not financially compensated for this material.

G. I. JOE and all related characters are © 2018 Hasbro, Inc.

All text is copyright © 2018 by Gene Kendall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

[REDACTED] SEASON 3.5 1

ENDINGS WITHOUT WORLDS 1

PART I: BROTHERS IN ARMS 6

PROLOGUE 7

CHAPTER ONE 11

CHAPTER TWO 16

CHAPTER THREE 20

CHAPTER FOUR 23

 _February 19, 1968_ 28

CHAPTER FIVE 30

CHAPTER SIX 34

CHAPTER SEVEN 39

 _November 24, 1968_ 42

PART II: KEPT YOU WAITING, HUH? 44

CHAPTER EIGHT 45

CHAPTER NINE 49

CHAPTER TEN 51

CHAPTER ELEVEN 55

CHAPTER TWELVE 57

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 60

PART III: BACK TO THE BEGINNING 61

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 62

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 65

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 67

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 70

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 73

 _March 9, 1969_ 74

CHAPTER NINETEEN 77

CHAPTER TWENTY 81

PART IV: CAMERA READY 85

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 86

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 91

 _June 5, 1973_ 94

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 96

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 101

PART V: [ARE MADE OF THIS] 105

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 106

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 108

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 111

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 115

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 119

CHAPTER THIRTY 122

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 124

 _December 17, 1976_ 128

PART VI: NOT WHAT TEACHER SAID TO DO 130

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 131

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 137

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 143

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 147

PART VII: MONTAGE OF HECK 152

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 153

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 158

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 161

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 164

CHAPTER FORTY 168

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 171

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 174

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 178

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 180

PART VIII: … IS ALL THAT YOU CAN'T SAY 184

 _April 2, 1981_ 185

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE 188

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX 189

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN 193

PART IX: EPILOGUE [ONE YEAR LATER] 195

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT 196

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE 199

CHAPTER FIFTY 202

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE 206

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO 210

PART I: BROTHERS IN ARMSPROLOGUE

TO THINK HE'D GIVEN UP ON MIRACLES.

He saw it with his own two eyes, his personal hero laid low by that Cobra lowlife. Stabbed through the heart with an alien dagger, losing too much blood in the next two minutes, slipping into a coma.

Duke pulled through, though. Beat the odds, found a way out of the darkness, just as Lt. Falcon was joining the Joes' climatic battle in the Himalayas. He'd spend the next week sleeping in that hospital room, keeping an eye on his older brother. Asking questions the doctors couldn't seem to answer; witnessing with horror Duke's slide back into pitiful health.

Another coma followed. Neurological readings were borderline nonsense. Eventually, the Joes' legendary medic Doc came through with the diagnosis. Gave the brutal news to Falcon as firmly and respectfully as any Joe could expect from Doc.

"Your brother's been poisoned," Doc told the lieutenant. "And considering we have no access to the bio-technology utilized by that dagger, and no means of collecting any other sample, we face incredible barriers to treatment."

Weeks passed before the call came. Falcon had agreed to a mission, infiltrating a Benzheen aerospace facility overrun by the snakes. Was in the midst of letting off some steam when he got the news.

For any other family, this would've been the end of the story. A service, a few days bereavement leave, time alone with the relatives, neighbors delivering cold potato salad and forced smiles. An aching loss to carry with you, until that day comes when you're reunited with all lost blood.

No final farewell for those Hauser-Falcone boys, though. The dreams began a couple of days after the funeral. Falcon couldn't discern what the heck they were saying at first. To his great embarrassment, he had to admit it took him a few weeks to piece it all together.

The venom that felled Duke? A pure Cobra creation. Of course they're the only ones to understand it. To know exactly what the poison was doing to Duke's bloodstream. What was a "death" in the doctors' eyes was merely the next step in the snakes' plan.

They spirited the body away from the hospital morgue, gave Duke the injection that restored him to life. In his place, one of those creepy synthoid contraptions. Thing probably turned to goo the second Duke's coffin lid shut.

Wasn't a bad plan, really. Assuming you had no soul. Demoralize the Joe troops, force them to face a loss they always thought unimaginable. While they're distracted, rebuild your empire, win a few propaganda victories and prepare for the next fight.

And their nefarious plot for Falcon's older brother? A rigorous round of brainwashing, squirreled away in their secret base in the northern Caribbean. Given his weakened state, they might've had a shot at finally breaking Mama Falcone's oldest boy this time.

Duke was a clever one, though. Found a way to use the snakes' indoctrination tech against them. He subdued a blueshirt one evening, got access to recording equipment and an assortment of subliminal conditioning cassettes. Tapes Cobra was preparing specifically for Joe prisoners.

Falcon's hero wasn't able to escape the island; got spotted by a guard tower only twenty seconds after he tunneled his way past the barbwire fencing. Still, he'd managed to win a sub-rosa victory against those snakes. Managed to find some way to get a message out.

And for Falcon, of all the Joes, to be the one to receive that message? To be the one to crack Duke's subliminal code, to storm through Camp Alpha and free his bloodkin? That was a miracle, no doubt.

And he'd need a miracle now, with two members of the Joes' experimental android infantry unit lying before him, bullet holes blemishing their cybernetic chest cavities and sparks shooting towards the ceiling. Duke had insisted the androids lead the charge, undergo the risk while the two flesh-and-blood Joes crept in behind them. Falcon, grudgingly, acknowledged Duke had a point. This facility—a nondescript office space hidden out in the California boonies—was housing a prized Cobra intelligence gathering operation. One the snakes couldn't afford to lose, given the current state of their organization. The brothers couldn't imagine just what awaited them inside.

"Can't trust a robot to do a man's job, anyway," Falcon spoke with confidence. He offered his brother cover, as Duke rushed forward, nailed Major Bludd with a front jab that sent him to the floor. Ripper and Torch of the Dreadnoks flanked him on both sides; Falcon humbled one with a shoulder shot, maneuvered just in time to fling the other into a nearby wall. Spent too long recovering from the move, however; didn't notice the shadow of that approaching brute.

The inhuman beast smacked the pistol from Falcon's hand. Followed up with a slap that sent him against the wall, landing on top of that Dreadnok. The lieutenant rose, lifted his dukes, offered his best wisecrack.

"You ready to rumble, ugly? I say bustin' up that mug of yours could only be an improvement."

That's when Falcon gained a good view of his opponent. When he was able to digest its height, like something from the Old Testament. Its physique, reminiscent of Jack Kirby. And those hideous bat wings, like the worst nightmare of the most deranged dime novelist.

The creature charged forward, lifted Falcon in a bear hug. He could feel a rib pop, less than one second after impact.

This was another specter from his dreams. The representation of that time reality went haywire, when beasts from prehistory revealed themselves, made their move to rule the Earth. This was the gnarled expression of the monster of his nightmares.

This was Nemesis Enforcer.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER…

CHAPTER ONE

HE'D BEEN A FOOL, thinking he could take his brother's place.

The additional responsibility, the authority granted him as the head of Cobra's New York operation, served as nothing more than an ego boost. He realized that now.

And his enthusiasm for the disguises, for shedding his skin, for peeling away those lifelong inhibitions—the joy of diving into a different role, a new life for the natural introvert to explore…all utterly misguided.

Better to stick to your skillset. The Romanian helped him realize this, not long after Zandar exploited his chameleon abilities and slipped past the NYPD. Called a Cobra safehouse out in Brooklyn, was instructed to report to the Romanian ASAP.

He obeyed, had a meeting with the man now serving as his superior. Didn't think to question just how the newbie had risen in the ranks so fast. He'd called to check in last night, the Romanian. After their talk, Zandar had this warm feeling; understood he hadn't felt so content in his work in ages.

Odd, though, just how much he enjoyed this dreary assignment. Hiding out in sunny Orange County, keeping tabs on a suburban single-parent home. Just the mom, and one teenage brat. Based on conversations he'd overheard, the twerp was getting ready to move out. Was heading off to college, wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and pursue dentistry or the like. Couldn't understand why that upset the mother so bad.

Why would he get a kick out of earwigging this mundane drivel? What satisfaction did he derive from killing time for so much of the day, stalking the brat from school to his afternoon job at the supermarket? Must be that Happiest Place on Earth, rubbing off on him.

Zandar had become an expert at slaughtering time, though. These portable cassette players were truly a gift from the heavens. Joined one of those "Nine Tapes for a Penny!" clubs, was getting a fresh cassette each week to feed his new toy.

Yeah, no question, this had turned out his favorite Cobra assignment. That's why he felt a slight pang of disappointment when he spotted the intruder stalking the Coopers' home.

Action? But he'd just slipped in the latest Jerry B. & The Rude Boys cassette.

Zandar sighed, slid off his earphones. Sneaked his way past the Harrison family's hyperactive Yorkshire terrier without the furry rat noticing. Easily evaded Mr. Simmons, out for one of his late night strolls through the neighborhood. Was inside the Coopers' yard in no time.

The Jack climbing up the side of their home—without a ladder, just using his fingers against the bricks—was dressed bloody familiar. Hadn't seen him around in ages; heard some rumors about him abandoning the operation, following that trial in the Terrordrome. He'd always been loyal to the Commander, this one, and didn't appreciate the way his Cobra brethren were turning on the man.

Lord, who even remembered this? That minor piffle occurred just moments before one of those freak nasties appeared. Enticing woman she was in her own right, if you ignored the artichoke-colored skin and acidic nails. Was the first member of that secret cabal to reveal itself, her presence foreshadowing a rotten round of luck for the organization.

They'd come through the worst of it. Had no shortage of new recruits to replace those lost in the mountains. So, what was the ninja in white doing here in Anaheim? Was he back on the team? Had there been some mix-up in the assignments?

Zandar was creeping past the side hedges, debating whether to call out to his former ally, when he felt the first _shuriken_ slice past his left bicep.

Didn't notice the cut at first, but caught blood seeping from the wound as he repositioned himself. Felt the fire as night wind connected with the long, diagonal tear in his skin.

He withdrew his silenced weapon from the holster. Had a shot off before the ninja could release another throwing star. The man in white parried, somehow kept his balance as he pulled some crazy gymnastics move, spinning off the side of the house and landing neatly in the lawn.

"Storm Shadow!" Zandar hissed, his whisper not disguising the anger. "Why are you here?"

A packet in the mail was the answer. One with instructions and a series of unmarked bills, the first half of his payment, assuming he completed his mission. Young Bobby Cooper, as anonymous and unexceptional as he appeared to be, was worth an unbelievable amount to some unknown entity.

Not Storm Shadow's favorite kind of job. But it paid the bills, and following his separation from Cobra, the ninja couldn't afford to be picky about mercenary work. (Little did he know a series of dummies, cutouts, and beards were disguising his true employer.)

Work had taken on more than a monetary motivation in recent weeks. The missions kept his mind off that horrid incident in Dublin. Gave him something to focus on, some way to hold those memories at bay.

Naturally, he'd never tell the punk freak any of this. "Away with you, dog! The fates will not be kind, if you're to stand in my way."

Zandar dismissed the warning, fired another shot. Storm Shadow bounded to the right, had a smoke pellet on the ground before his feet connected with the grass. As Zandar's eyes and mouth were filling with smoke, Storm Shadow took another path.

Forget stealth. Just go through the front door.

Covering his face with his neck bandana (no longer a mere fashion statement), Zandar had to work on memory, navigating a path through the Coopers' lawn. Followed the ninja into the front door; realized this was an excellent opportunity to pit his stealth skills against the traitor's.

Blending into the shadows, Zandar stalked the ninja up the staircase; slipped past his opponent.

He aimed a right hook at the ninja. Storm Shadow caught the arm, twisted it, then maneuvered Zandar's entire body ninety degrees. Gave him a healthy kick in the back as punishment. Zandar's face traveled three feet, made contact with the wall. Bobby's victory photo from the 1986 Tri-State Chess Championship bounced off Zandar's neck, hit the carpet.

Zandar was prepared for the follow-through. Braced himself for it, resisted the desire to clutch his throbbing back. Storm Shadow just passed on by, however. Nothing of value in this house; Zandar had staked it out enough times. For some reason, Storm Shadow was bound for the boy's bedroom.

Who'd hire a ninja for a kidnapping job? And who cared enough about this meek dag to stage a late night snatching?

Perhaps he'd learn the answers later, but at this moment, he desired more than anything revenge for that sore back. Zandar reasoned he knew the layout better than the ninja, positioning himself outside Bobby's bedroom and staking out his hiding place. Soon felt Storm Shadow's approach in the dark. Nabbed him in a bodylock from behind, then exploited his superior position to drive the ninja into the floor.

"Your resistance is…meaningless!" he growled, elbowing Zandar in the right cheek. Zandar wouldn't relent, only used his body weight to drive Storm Shadow deeper into the carpet. Was proud of himself, the way he'd gripped the ninja's errant arm and pinned it to his back.

Zandar reached for his chest holster. Winced at the thought of the ensuing mess, such a close range shot. Rejoiced at the thought of his bolstered rep. The ninja had dropped off the radar recently, but everyone knew of Storm Shadow's status as the fiercest throat-slitter in the game.

The ninja's muscles tensed, most likely attempting some secret combat technique from the East, one that would enable him to break this ruthless half-nelson. Maybe those galahs were the experts when it came to karate chops, throwing stars, whatever. Maybe they did practice ancient grappling techniques that could grant them escape from any hold.

But they'd never devised a counter for a bullet to the back of the head.

Zandar wished he had some deadly one-liner. A clever sendoff to his rival that'd offer the perfect capper to this anecdote. _Eh, forget it,_ the Dreadnok reasoned. _I'll just make one up later._ Racking the slide, he wondered if Storm Shadow, through his ghostwhite mask, could feel the cold steel currently resting against his cranium.

The bedroom door rasped. That reedy wad Zandar had been tasked with protecting, no glasses on his face but now an abundance of zit cream, stood terrified in the doorway.

"W-whu?" was his near-sentence.

Zandar realized too late how badly he'd let his attention lapse. The gun was flying out of his hand, a victim of Storm Shadow's audacious headbutt. Trigger finger caught, even for that lightning moment, between that ninja's hard head and the steel of the weapon—Zandar had to wonder if it'd been broken.

Storm Shadow's body rolled to the right, slipping in a stunning knee strike in the midst of the maneuver. Zandar only spent a second reacting to the pain, more than enough time for the ninja to rise and deliver a back hand slap.

The boy likely had no coherent thoughts, just the impulse to run as far and as fast from this insanity as possible. He retreated into his room, slammed the door behind him just in time to catch half of Storm Shadow's body. Didn't deter the ninja, who channeled his anger and frustration into a strike that shattered the wood into a million splinters.

Bobby lied to himself—told his neuroses to shut up about his asthma. No, he's not having an attack right now; he can't afford one. Chest on fire, he reached his window. Brushed away those Garfield curtains he'd told his mother to ditch after his twelfth birthday.

Was tangled up in them like a mess when Storm Shadow grabbed him from behind. "Do not struggle," the invader warned, somehow emphasizing each word of the sentence. Bobby felt the invader's hand reach his lips. "Stay silent," he warned.

Bobby obeyed. Shivered like mad, but said nothing as Storm Shadow bear-hugged him, lifted him atop the windowsill.

He finally let out a gasp when he felt the gunshot whizzing by.

"Drop that kid," admonished the second stranger, standing in the remains of his doorway, smoky pistol in hand.

"You're too late, Cobra mongrel," the invader scoffed, as he reached for the _shuriken_ in his belt. Bobby barely captured the full movement, just saw a metallic blur spin through the air, landing a heartbeat later inside the barrel of the stranger's gun.

Was this man his rescuer? The glam/punk freakazoid currently examining his damaged weapon? When the weirdo looked up, Bobby caught some fire in his eyes; some determination this wasn't right. Bobby captured a breath, allowed himself to believe this foreigner might just be some kind of savior. Prayed the hero was good at his job, as the ninja gripped his body tighter and launched them out of the window.

They somersaulted twice before hitting the lawn. Bobby's heart soared when he looked up, saw the odd savior staring down at him from the window. Questioned why he didn't seem to be following. (It's only a two-story drop. No big deal for guys like Arnold or Sly.) Felt that heart sink as the ninja dragged him further away from his home, the stoic hero only watching impassively from the window.

Fifty feet away, Zandar observed the scene. The switch flipped, all investment in the mission now dissipated. Turned to leave. Didn't bother to address Diane Cooper, clad only in her housecoat, hair in curlers, screaming bloody murder at this stranger.

By the time he was down the stairs, she was past hysterical, hitting Zandar on the back, her face a beet, demanding to know what had happened to her son. He shrugged off the blows, opened the front door, then made a tranquil exit into the night.

Was back in his hiding spot soon enough. Popped in that Rude Boys tape and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of his evening.

CHAPTER TWO

"I JUST DON'T SEE HOW THAT BUSINESS MODEL WORKS," said Tunnel Rat, snapping his gum.

Lt. Falcon reminded himself he wasn't his teammates' mother. That it wasn't his business, the nasty particles floating through the air, attaching themselves to the soldier's latest piece of Bubble-Fun. "What do I care? I'm not their accountant."

"Yeah, but if they can send you nine tapes for just a penny, they're goin' outta business soon, right?" asked Tunnel Rat, effortlessly maneuvering through the sewer tunnel. For the past half hour, he'd been feeling the strain of his shoulder-mounted tactical flashlight (more of an incandescent lamp than flashlight, really) but he wouldn't dream of complaining. "Unless they're acquiring those albums from the back of a truck. Heck, even then, one _penny_ just sounds nuts. You sure it's not just the introductory price?"

"I'll check the fine print when we get back to base." Falcon watched as his teammate, a good six inches shorter in stature, braced his hand at the top of the tunnel, flexed, then flipped his entire bodyweight out of the tunnel with ease.

His boots splashed the coffee-colored sewer sludge in all directions. "Back to base with certain parts of our anatomy in our hands, and nothing else," Tunnel Rat joked as he offered both hands to aid Falcon.

Falcon accepted the assistance, had to contort his wider, burlier body in several uncomfortable positions before he could be freed from the tunnel. His teammate did what he could to ease Falcon's seven-foot drop into the brick chamber below. But Tunnel Rat wasn't letting him forget just how they ended up here. "Still can't believe you talked General Hawk into this. You have a vision during sleepy time an' that sends us on a covert mission to New York? Absurd."

The lieutenant didn't want to go through this again. It was a dream, yes, but there was nothing cryptic about it. More of a memory, one that he'd miraculously recovered while his subconscious was given its playtime. A memory of a map, located on the kitchen table of Cobra's Astoria hideout. A map of the NYC sewer system; an exact portion of those tunnels, in fact.

The soldiers continued their patrol, each taking one side of the walkway. "Miracle I could ever reach REM state, Rat, given that chainsaw impersonation you perform for the base every evenin'."

"I still say you're a fibber on that score, Lieutenant. My moms never told me I snored."

Falcon turned towards his friend, eyebrow cocked. "Didn't tell you how bad you mangle Brick Springstern tracks in the shower either, did she?"

Turning the corner, Tunnel Rat was the first to spot the red helmet displays, almost in the shape of a cross, emerging twenty yards away. Made sense; the average Cobra grunt probably would wimp out down here, kvetching about the smell or crying out for his mommy in the dark.

Battle Android Troopers, however, never complained about anything.

Both Joes drew their sidearms, retreating a few feet to find whatever cover the layout could provide. Falcon felt confident he'd only spotted four B.A.T.s in that hurried flash. Fired three shots in less than a second; one missed, two connected with a B.A.T.'s midsection.

"Hey, they got Brick's newest one in that penny-club?" Tunnel Rat asked as he took his turn, landing a solid shot in the tangle of circuitry that resides in the chest of a B.A.T. "Still haven't checked it out."

The B.A.T.s were retaliating with no mercy. Fragments of brick kept flying in the air, chipping away at the Joes' makeshift barricade. "I heard it sucked eggs. But I'll double-check the pamphlet when we get back to base. Maybe you'll get lucky."

The lieutenant one-upped his subordinate, scarcely avoiding the barrage of fire while nailing a headshot on the lead B.A.T. Was going to make another crack at his friend, until he felt Tunnel Rat's body rush past him, an indecipherable battle charge echoing throughout the sewers.

Falcon hadn't noticed yet, but one of those blasts nicked a portion of his uniform, specifically the eponymous reminder of his time as a Green Beret. A chunk of the beret's fabric vaporized under the androids' fire, an attack observed with horror by the lieutenant's subordinate. Horror, and within a heartbeat, furious revulsion. Apparently, the Joes' combat engineering expert held a healthier respect for battle dress than anyone had realized.

Sometimes, Falcon had to remind himself his buddy Tunnel Rat was, well, crazy. And not in the "like a fox" category, either.

They found some way to dance around this when typing up his psyche profile, but anyone who'd served with the Rat in a hairy enough mission had seen a peculiar glint in his eyes. The one that indicated the good-humored little guy who could yammer on all day about the most trivial of topics had taken a short vacation; that his deranged cousin with the inattentive concern for personal safety or acceptable battlefield tactics would be taking over for a while.

Falcon, secure in his own mental stability, could only shrug his shoulders. Watch with a mix of worry and amusement as Tunnel Rat ducked enemy fire, swatted a live grenade like it was nothing, then drove every ounce of his bodyweight into the nearest android soldier.

Shaking off the disbelief, Falcon followed his teammate, offering whatever cover fire he could, considering how fast the diminutive demon was moving. Wasn't even sure if the adorable little psycho noticed when Falcon scored that impressive grouping on one B.A.T.'s left shoulder, severing his arm and sparing Tunnel Rat whatever plans it had in mind for that solid steel clamp attachment.

In under thirty seconds, all four B.A.T.s were scrap on the sewer floor. Panting, Tunnel Rat took a moment to, perhaps, admire the carnage. Or possibly reflect on the shocking recklessness of his actions. Falcon made an honest effort, not looking in his friend's direction as those wild eyes transitioned back to normal ol' loveable Rat eyes.

Then, abruptly, the soldier asked, "And is it just tapes? Me, I got a preference for vinyl."

Falcon played along. Whistled playfully. "Lordy, Rat. What decade are you living in?"

"Ain't no depth or texture to those magnetic tapes, Lieutenant, regardless of the year. And don't get me started on that CD scam they're tryin' to get going."

Falcon directed his flashlight to the opposite end of the passageway. "So, you think these metal clunkers just happened to be hanging out here, or was your lieutenant maybe on to something?"

"Don't let that melon outgrow your beret, Lieutenant," Tunnel Rat spoke while strutting past Falcon, giving him a sarcastic pat on the back on his way. "Let's just follow the trail they left and then see how good a prophet you are."

Falcon followed, flashlight in one hand, sidearm gripped in the other. "You oughtta see me in my robes. And just wait until I grow my beard out, grasshopper. Didn't realize this unit had such lax hair an' dress standards 'til I joined…"

Tunnel Rat shushed him, just as they were reaching the next corner. The lieutenant listened close, listened to the sound of two feet pacing against the concrete. Pacing with not only a military precision, but very possibly a robotic one as well.

Slowly, both Joes turned the corner. Carved into a nook of the brickwork was a collection of computers and fax machines, blinking red and green lights and shooting out reams of burst paper, surely detailing the latest nefarious Cobra plot.

Falcon whispered to his teammate, "You were right, soldier. A straggler."

Tunnel Rat shook his head. "No chance. He's left back for a reason—to destroy the evidence."

The lieutenant nodded, used a hand signal to indicate he'd be leading this one, then sneaked closer to the B.A.T. He was cursing the water on his boots, the creaky sound the wet rubber was making as he inched closer to his target, when he realized it didn't matter.

Realized this as the B.A.T.'s hand retracted into its arm, replaced itself with a miniaturized flamethrower. Took aim at the wall of hard drives and printers and just went to town on them. And, as casually as an android soldier does anything, turned to its left and sprayed flames in Falcon's direction.

Mama Falcone's youngest spun his body around in less than one tick of the clock. Fed those flames his backpack and the portions of his uniform unfortunate enough to be close by. Wasn't sure if any of the blaze had reached his skin, as he dropped to the concrete and reenacted those Boy Scout drills from Fire Safety Month.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" called Tunnel Rat, passing by, nailing the target with a steady assault that landed from face to chest.

Falcon had rolled into the sewer water that separated the passageway—unsure if exposure to the assorted bacteria was worth beating the fire, but chancing the move anyway. He affirmed the fire on his back was dead, a moment before he witnessed a curious sight inside that nook.

"Just singed some nose hairs," he responded, his voice trailing away. The image of that B.A.T.'s left hand detaching itself, running on its fingers and racing away from its body did leave him momentarily speechless.

"Hey, you ever watch that old show about the —"

The lieutenant couldn't complete the thought; Tunnel Rat had peeked the spectacle in time. "Hey! Little bugger's still movin'!" he exclaimed, racing towards the severed mechanical meathook.

To the left of the blazing console, the hand seemed to be targeting one floppy disk from amidst the debris. Had it gripped tight between its fingers when Tunnel Rat arrived, sweeping the mitt off the floor. After the soldier peeled the disk from its fingers, he wasted little time tossing the motorized abnormality against the brick wall.

 _GTMO_ read the handwritten letters on the label.

Turning back, a buoyed Tunnel Rat showed off the disk and asked, "You were saying, Lieutenant?"

" _I_ saw it scramblin' first," he was sure to point out, stepping out of the foul water. "Reminded me of the detached hand from that show about the, uh, kooky family in that mansion. You remember that one?" Tunnel Rat, studying the unassuming 5¼-inch diskette didn't seem to be paying attention. "Forget it. Just trying to impress you with my rapier wit, Rat."

"I'm overwhelmed, bud." The soldier offered the diskette to Falcon. "Those letters mean anything to you?"

The lieutenant cocked an eyebrow, handed the floppy back to his friend. "Zilch, bud."

Tunnel Rat tucked the disk inside a safe place in his (unsinged) backpack. "Guess Mainframe will have some fun with it. And, hey Little Nemo, I guess apologies are due. Next round of frosty Yo Joe colas are on me, all right?"

CHAPTER THREE

IT'D BEEN A HECTIC WEEK for Dr. Brian Cooper. After so many years of chaos, he could hardly believe what tomorrow held. If the knock at the door startled the doctor too much, caused him to jump just a centimeter too high, he couldn't be blamed.

He allowed himself some foolish optimism, though. Opening the door without taking a look through the peephole.

"No…you can't…" he gasped, recognizing the two faces on the other side.

"We can—"

"—we _will._ "

They shoved their way inside. The scarred one was the first to take a seat on the doctor's couch. His brother remained standing, arms crossed, leaning against the furniture.

"The war's over," said Dr. Cooper, with the breath that remained in his lungs. "Cobra's been dethroned. You have no—"

"Authority, Dr. Cooper? Based on your body language—"

"—westill have _great_ authority over you _._ "

The doctor collected himself. Decided not to fight off images of the past; to embrace them, allow himself to feel the anger. Anything to counteract the waves of terror. Taking a seat across from the brothers, he asked, "What do you want? The federal agents are still patrolling, still looking for any traces of Cobra."

"Are we to assume you've escaped their reach?"

"Don't you dare!" Cooper spat back, offended. "I was drafted into your service at _gun point_! And, yes, I've spoken to the authorities. Provided whatever information I could…I hope to God they find you…that you get what you deserve."

The scarred one revealed that sadistically handsome smile of his. "As someone personally acquainted with your skills, I'll express horrible remorse at this. You're uniquely…talented, dear doctor."

Another memory returned. A battlefield injury, the posh banker-turned-soldier apoplectic over the wound profaning his idyllic features. Cooper fixed him up, did what he could to reduce the ghastliness of the injury. Had to remind his patient, more than once, that he was no plastic surgeon, however…

"And it would be a shame for such capable hands to go to waste," said his brother. "Don't tell us you're thinking of reopening that absurd dental practice of yours?"

"Orthodontic," he corrected. "Of course I am. I have to rebuild my life. Return to something that resembles normalcy."

The scarred twin removed a pistol from his holster. "Well, we'd hate to be a bother. But we'd also hate to stop by without picking your brain over a subject or two."

The standing brother opened his coat to reveal a manila folder. The notes were tossed to the doctor with more than a hint of aggression. The doctor actually felt a wave of relief, then cursed himself for it.

If they needed him, they wouldn't kill him. This was all a part of the dance. Took only a moment for Cooper to remember just how hellish being "needed" could be. To send him back to a life he'd promised himself was over.

"Tell us, Doctor. Do any of those notes ring a bell? Provoke a sudden onslaught of 'Eureka!' in your brain cells?"

The doctor flipped through the notes. Talk of deoxyribonucleic acid, secrets of the double-helix, the value of genetics, even from the grave. The technology it spoke of, the implications of tinkering with the most basic element of humanity…Cooper was appalled.

"This…this is the work of a madman." The doctor, revulsion not hidden on his face, flung the papers at the floor. "I couldn't begin to perform what you're asking of me."

The brothers exchanged a look. The one without a scar eventually chuckled before saying, "Hmm…I don't suppose acting was also in the chap's skill set."

The scarred one stood. "Agreed. I suppose the most efficacious way to end this fruitless discussion would be to eliminate any evidence it ever happened…"

With the pistol lifted, he eyed his target. The fear in Cooper's eyes had morphed into a palpable contempt. The scarred brother was forced, momentarily, to break eye contact. Caught a glimpse of the portraits hanging on the wall. The good doctor must've saved the prints.

He'd seen those photos before—tattered, pathetic images from the doctor's previous life. He kept 2.5 x 3.5 versions of the photos in his wallet. Used to pull them out when he thought the twins weren't paying attention.

Diane and little Bobby. Both victims of Strain D. Did they know, wherever spirits roam, that their husband and father was the one to ultimately devise the cure? Did his achievement ease the doctor's suffering, or was it merely salt in the wound?

Sometimes, deep into the night, the scarred brother could hear the doctor speaking to this lost wife and son, when he thought the rest of the company asleep.

Why hang those inane images? Why remind yourself of a life forever lost?

The realization hit the twin, caused him to titter just a bit. The brave doctor, taking his stand—or, simply asking his former superior to commit the act he couldn't bring himself to perform.

The pistol was holstered. "…but perhaps efficiency is overrated. Good evening, Doctor. We wish you only success in your new life."

CHAPTER FOUR

"YOU HAVE TO RECOGNIZE HOW RIDICULOUS YOU LOOK."

"Says the man in a cape. And codpiece."

Dr. Mindbender should've expected the retort. Their entire journey east, Raptor had been snippy like this. The doctor had endured worse travelmates than the eccentric ornithologist, although he'd be pressed to think of them at the moment.

"A tribute to my Alsatian roots," he responded, adjusting his cloak to cover his lap. He didn't face his companion, instead taking in the lavish stylings of the Trucial Abysmia royal palace. "The, ah, cloak that is. You, conversely, have adorned yourself as a fool."

"Been working on this suit for months," Raptor said with pride. A pride perhaps undeserving of a grown man dressed in an intricately detailed bird costume. "My feathered friends respond to it; recognize me as one of their own. When I discovered the Colonel was a bird lover, I figured it could give us an edge."

Raptor—a falconry expert for Cobra, tasked with training predatory birds for surveillance and attack purposes. Recruited into the organization mere weeks before the incident in the mountains that nearly ended Cobra's operations. Faced with a certain dismissal after the Crimson Twins revaluated the books, Raptor pled his case; revealed he'd spent his previous life as a high-priced white-collar tax consultant. Had a clientele of executive tax cheats and alimony-dodgers the envy of financial markets the world over.

He offered his accounting services, agreed to keep the bird business as a hobby. His skill with a spreadsheet was as respectable as advertised; the ornithological diversion tolerated so long as every contracted agent, grunt, and officer could make payroll.

Which was becoming more of an issue, lately. An onslaught of new recruits (thanks to the former leader's One Good Idea) but barely the means to provide for them. Almost exclusively young males, with ravenous appetites, destructive urges…absolute murder on training bases, equipment…

"I fear he'll laugh us out of the dining hall."

Raptor had left his seat, was examining a bronze statue of a dark chanting goshawk. Stunning bird, expertly represented by this work of art. This Colonel Abu Minyar's taste in décor was regrettable, but his choice in birds of prey was beyond reproach. "If you want me to leave, fine. But you invited me for a reason, didn't you?" Back turned to his leader, Raptor sneered, "I suspect your interest in haggling over the pecuniary details borders on the non-existent, yes?"

"Just don't do anything to embarrass yourself. Further."

The doors to the spacious dining hall opened. Welcoming the Cobra agents was Colonel Abu Minyar's longtime aide, Kapama. A diminutive man approaching fifty, his genial front disguised eyes that had witnessed the most horrific of atrocities. Few sights could unnerve the serene Kapama, having deadened so much of his soul for thirty years now.

The image of two grown men dressed for what had to be a deranged child's costume ball, however, did give him pause.

Kapama collected himself. Began his rehearsed patter. "Greetings, friends. What a pleasure to host you this evening. Is, ah, your attire associated with a custom in the West of which I am unfamiliar?"

Mindbender stood, offered his hand. "I suppose you could chalk it up to the…peculiarities that reside within our organization."

Kapama smiled, attempted to keep his eyes on the mad doctor. Absurd his garments might've been, but they were recognizably human. The living bird-man was likely to give Kapama fits of laughter. Or perhaps nightmares. "Yes, the Cobra Command does have something of a reputation for flamboyance."

"But, also, for quality work at equitable rates, I would suggest," piped in the walking bird.

"Oh, yes, certainly," spoke Kapama as he escorted the guests into the dining hall. "Please have a seat; the colonel is ready for his meal."

Standing at the head of the thirty-foot, African bubinga wood table was the colonel, dressed in full military regalia. "My friends, my friends," he spoke with outstretched hands.

Posed as if for a portrait, trademark riding crop attached to his waist and indoor sunglasses concealing his cognac-brown eyes, Colonel Abu Minyar showed no disdain for his guests' sartorial choices. One fashion maven recognized another, perhaps.

"Please, welcome to my palace," the colonel said as he broke his pose and moved down the table. Taking hands with both guests, he beamed a pleasant energy while speaking with conviction, "I hope a most productive conversation awaits us."

The embrace lingered. Raptor cleared his throat, attempted to maintain the rapport. "I think your aide was a mite perplexed by our ceremonial dress."

The colonel finally dropped their hands. Waved his in the air and laughed. "Think nothing of it. The grandiosity of your association is part of the appeal, I believe."

As everyone took their seat at the table, Mindbender prepared the opening gambit. Flattery, the surest way to the colonel's heart. Even if the subject remained raw for the doctor. He turned to his companion and said, "You might not be aware of this, Raptor, but the colonel participated in last year's…liquidation of our real estate holdings."

Raptor held out his glass for wine. Grinned and said, "Saw a good deal and leapt on it, eh? Can't blame the man."

"Indeed," spoke the colonel as he savored the finest cut of lamb. "A discreetly hidden temple in the sands of Tunisia. _Stunning_ snake theme throughout the castle. Perhaps my dearest vacation home. The wives and I enjoy it very much."

The doctor swallowed his pining for the glory days of Cobra, nodded and said, "Yes. A favorite of mine, from bygone days. Tell me, have you made use of the throne room's hidden python pit?"

"A delight, truly. And the stone oubliette crypts?" The colonel kissed his fingertips. "Works of art, I would say. But the great hall, _ehhh_ , was lacking in a certain warmth. Rectified with marble columns, gold crown molding, and, naturally, an ivory statue of the people's beloved colonel." Mouth full, he gestured towards the doctor with his fork. "You must pay it a visit someday, my dear Mindbender."

The doctor gritted his teeth. Thought of the months he spent renovating that room from scratch, arguing with contractors, carefully researching the most depraved corners of the underworld art scene to find designers with the diseased sensibilities befitting of a Cobra palace. That hall was a wicked testament to the amoral philosophy that birthed Cobra—transformed now into a gaudy monument to a buffoon dictator's fragile ego. As if Mindbender needed further proof life is cruel and malicious. Raptor, recognizing the uncomfortable silence, nudged his companion with his elbow.

The doctor received the hint. Put on a smile and nodded. "It would be an…honor, sire. Now, the reason for our visit today—I imagine you've called us to discuss the issue of neighboring Benzheen, and the issues that have erupted on your border?"

"Issues" meaning an invasion from Trucial Abysmia into its neighbor's borders. A bloody yet necessary requirement for building Abu Minyar's fabled "state of the masses," the Communist brotherhood that would soon dominate northern Africa. The vast oil reserves located within Benzheen surely did not serve as a motivation for this offensive, regardless of the claims spread by western propagandists.

Grasping his jewel-encrusted goblet, the colonel's grin dropped. "Trucial Abysmia has _nothing_ to fear from that cockroach of a nation. Although, the unique services offered by your organization could aid us in executing the inevitable. It's my understanding you've amassed a stunning number of new recruits?"

Raptor leaned onto the table. "That we have, Colonel. Over a thousand young souls, eager to fight for the holy cause of Trucial Abysmia. Assuming those pesky monetarist concerns are properly addressed, of course…"

 _Over a thousand young mouths to feed_ …mused Dr. Mindbender, drifting further away from the conversation. Such pedestrian worries; how could he have guessed so many of his hours would be consumed by them? Accounts payable, accounts receivable, lodging issues for the troops, disappointing fiscal earnings, regulatory concerns for the legitimate fronts, security concerns for the illegitimate operations.

And to think Crystal Ball, that weasel, coveted his position.

Not that the Romanian was explicit in his desires, but Mindbender could recognize a schemer when he saw one. His "ally" had to know by now that his powers of persuasion were impotent before the doctor; that someone of his intellect would deduce a means to circumvent the archaic art of hypnosis. Yes, those cochlear implants were marvelous, resting surreptitiously in his ears, blocking any "suggestions" that might be coming from the mystic's forked tongue. But would Crystal Ball concoct some other means to usurp the doctor's autonomy?

For pity's sake, they're still talking. Raptor obsessing over the details, demanding to know just what percentage of Benzheen's oil reserves would belong to Cobra, assuming Trucial Abysmia wins the war. Negotiating for a higher payment upfront, doing everything in his power to tip-toe around just how green those new recruits were. Questioning the colonel's commitment to Communism, given the global climate.

Mindbender sighed, slipped deeper into his chair. Thought of his lab. His true lab, not that table with the soldering iron and electrical cords in the corner of his office. The laboratory. The place of miracles that once birthed the exquisite _Übermensch_ known as Serpentor.

So long since his last visit. So, so long since his last creation of biomechanical art.

The doctor enjoyed a long sip of wine, was beginning to calculate some excuse to evade the remainder of this meeting. Raptor, odd bird that he was, seemed to be handling the minutia well enough. Let him feel like a big bird-man for the evening.

Mindbender had his hands against the table, ready to push his chair away, when two fragrant words left his host's lips.

"And I suppose the issue of mortuary affairs must be addressed," spoke a formerly distant voice. "In the past, I recall your organization offering competitive prices in the area of theatre recovery."

 _Mortuary affairs._

The imagery generated by the term would nauseate any man of character. Would force him to question his beliefs, his delusion that any armed conflict between men could be "civilized." The doctor's mind, however, danced with innumerable possibilities.

"A service we gladly offer to this day, Colonel," he interjected with avidity. "In fact, Cobra is pleased to announce that our mortuary services are now _gratis_."

His companion turned. "They _are_?"

"No doubt! An amenity we're proud to offer our clients. Why, you have my assurance I will personally oversee the collection of the casualties and war wounded."

"You _will_?"

The Colonel clapped his hands. "Very generous, Doctor! I would've assumed your elevated position within the agency prevented such hands-on participation."

As Raptor sat incredulous, calculating the unexpected strain on their fiscal year budget, the doctor couldn't disguise his glee. "Think nothing of it, Colonel. Only the best for friends of Cobra."

 _February 19, 1968_

IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY, Keone. Twenty years on this planet.

Over a year since you departed your home, began your journey to prove yourself. Did the research and determined Hkakabo Razi, a peak so perilous no man has successfully reached its summit, would be your destination. Spent two weeks in the muggy, claustrophobic jungle below before you even got a glimpse of where to start.

Nearly died during the first avalanche. Took the scars as a prize, and a learning experience. Continued that sheer climb, reached the jagged range of subzero pinnacles, set up camp in the most hostile environment known to man. Every time you think of your brother, traveling to America of all places, you can't repress that sick laughter.

Perfect place for a misanthrope such as yourself. Perhaps one day you'll notify the world of your accomplishment. Allow the accolades to pour in, allow your name to be spoken with the reverence it deserves. Then, you'll return to the compound. Don't lie to yourself—you're going to rub it in. Enjoy the look of envy and embarrassment on all of their faces. Maybe Tomisaburo will be back by then, if the fates are so kind.

You exit your tent, examine the breathtaking skyline, tell yourself you're ready for another morning. Another day of practicing the survival techniques nature has forced you to hone to perfection. Another day of an aching, but desolately satisfying, isolation.

So, why is it you hear footsteps approaching?

You remove the blade from your boot holster.

The invader shocks you, calling out in a Sino-Tibetan language. You follow his voice, see him approaching from the west. Clad in a parka and hiking gear, he's gesturing for you to come closer.

Bewildered, you comply, though your grip never slips on that blade. The stranger is sized up; deemed unlikely to be any threat. In your native tongue, you tell him you don't speak Myanmar. Ask if he knows Japanese.

"Indeed I do. I'm versed in many tongues of this land," he responds in perfect Japanese. Although you can't help noticing a sibilant _hsss_ accompanies a few syllables. He asks for your name.

"Keone. Yours?"

"Your tongue might not handle the demands," he speaks again in your native language. "Just know me as a friend."

You're prepared to question what that means, just when a sharp pain enters your ankle. You look down, catch a fleeting glimpse of a mountain snake scurrying away. The dizziness hits almost immediately. Doesn't make sense—only known snakes in this region are non-venomous. So why is the sky spinning? Why is your breakfast returning to your throat?

A fire attacks your nerves. The stranger races towards your body, seizing out on the ground. His concern sounds genuine, even if you can't place the language he's now speaking. If you were in your right mind, you might view it as bad acting.

You do notice the blood in the snow around you. Assume you hit the ground too hard; realize soon it's the instantaneous nose bleed caused by that venom. Any poison moving this fast is beyond man's science, that's a notion passing through your mind. Not that your thoughts are coherent enough to comprehend what's happening, to lament your imminent passing.

The strange man removes a vial from his rucksack, pops the cork. From inside, a million tiny beetles bustle out onto the ground. They march toward the wound, gather at their meeting place, an infinite number of mandibles nibbling away at the bite.

Some time fades. Could be as much as an hour. He's still hovering over you, offering a warm drink, checking now on the wound. He wipes away the last of the beetles. The abrasion is missing. You can move now, can verify what he's telling you. Your skin's as pristine as before, your blood flowing as if nothing had been wrong.

"Feeling better now, I hope?" he asks.

The stranger removes his ski mask, exposes a disturbing grin...amongst other secrets. He's certainly no native of your abandoned land.

This hairless oddity. This outsider with his plastic smile, obsidian eyes, and skin the color of a powder blue sky.

CHAPTER FIVE

WILD BILL, so often accused of belonging to the wrong era, possessed a deferential respect for authority. Was held in high regard by every one of his superiors. Never any disrespect, never any questioning of orders. Any commissioned officer could expect the best of treatment, taking a ride with Bill—be it in the CH-42 Tomahawk or his beloved Dragonfly XH-1 chopper.

Lt. Falcon, however, was discovering the pilot's Texas hospitality did possess its limits.

"Now cut that out, Falcon!" Wild Bill shouted over his shoulder, as the lieutenant's fist hammered against the door of the Tomahawk. "You're actin' like a blamed fool!"

Falcon slammed two open palms against the door. With a snarl, he turned towards the cockpit. "C'mon! It's gotta be one of those buttons or switches!"

Wild Bill took his attention from the evening sky long enough to register Falcon's approach. Still couldn't believe the insanity of the previous three minutes. Both Tunnel Rat and Lt. Falcon had been snoozing in the back, the lieutenant out like a light, thanks to whatever-the-kids-call-music he was enjoying on those headphones.

Tunnel Rat remained in dreamland while Falcon suddenly found himself awake. Awake, and desperate to embark on some grand mission. One that absolutely could not wait a moment longer.

"All due respect, Lieutenant, I need you back in your seat," Wild Bill spoke in a panicked tone, removing Falcon's unsteady hands from the instrument panel. "Whatever big plans you have, they can wait 'till the mornin'."

"No! It's urgent," Falcon shot back. "Can't waste one more second here…" he said while making a move for the nearby parachute. Strapping it on, he directed a finger towards Wild Bill, gave the order, "and if you don't open this door right now, pilot, I'm…I'm…"

Wild Bill, preparing himself for the worst, for the inevitability of what he'd have to do to Falcon after setting the auto-pilot, looked again over his shoulders. "Lieutenant? You feelin' all right?"

You could almost see the flashing lights doing a samba around his eyes. "Just feeling a bit lightheaded. I think…I should probably…"

The pilot was trying to think of the term. Night terrors. That's what they're called. Read about them in _Timely_ magazine a few months earlier. Darned shame, a condition like that afflicting the lieutenant.

"Go back to your seat? Sleep off this funk a'yours?" Wild Bill eased his voice, adopted the tone he'd use with an agitated steer back on the farm. "Yeah, I'd say that's about right, pard."

The parachute pack hit the floor. Falcon, staggering now, turned towards his seat in the staging area. "Yeah…I think you're right, Wild Bill." Some clarity returned to his voice. "Ah, sorry about, ah, any trouble."

The pilot returned his attention to the skies. Pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "Don't worry about it. Happens to the best of us, I s'pose." The good Texas boy spent the rest of the flight debating whether to mention this incident on his report when he returned to base.

He ultimately decided against it. Decided to respect the lieutenant's privacy. Didn't wish to embarrass the man. And if anyone deserved the benefit of the doubt, it was the younger brother of the dearly loved and dearly missed Conrad "Duke" Hauser.

A compassionate decision. Had he made the alternate choice, perhaps some lives could've been saved.

"WHADDAYA MEAN IT'S EMPTY?" Tunnel Rat enquired, removing his legs from the Communication Suite's console. The laidback mood of the morning, the pride of the previous day's discovery, now dissipating.

Mainframe, superior grin on his face, pointed again to the monitor. The blank monitor. "What those three syllables mean in any context, Rat. This diskette has no data. Zero. Nada. Same as the Padres' chances of winning the World Series this year."

"So why'd that B.A.T. go to such trouble…?" Tunnel Rat asked the ceiling. He kicked the rolling chair behind him as he stood. "Dang, I've got to tell Falcon about this."

Mainframe reached for his coffee mug. Held it close to his lips as he said, "Shouldn't have slept in today, Rat. The lieutenant is on leave, as of this morning."

"Really? He didn't say a thing to me about that."

"Didn't say no-thing to no-one," Mainframe answered after finishing his sip. "According to the log, he got on the horn with the general before the sun was up. Said he was taking him up on that offer for leave time. Caught the tires of his jeep squealing out of the garage when I was on my morning jog."

The leave time was owed from Christmas. A time General Hawk suggested Falcon spend with his family, following the tragedy of the previous year. Falcon ended up indisposed on the actual holiday; never got around to using the time off. Didn't express a desire to, even after the Punto del Mucosa incident.

Tunnel Rat crossed his arms. Stroking his chin, he spoke in a near-whisper, "That…that just doesn't sound right."

"Heh. I ran into his sweetie with the karate belt earlier today. She seemed to be of the same opinion…"

"THAT SAILOR RUN A GAME ON YOU?" asked Jinx, stepping out of General Hawk's office. Even if the shock of Falcon's abrupt departure was weighing on her, the progress she'd been making with the general had eased her nerves. In spite of his reputation, Hawk wasn't unreasonably harsh. Had worked out, the best he could, some way to handle the unique situation Jinx's past presented the Joes. All honesty, Jinx wasn't expecting the man to be so understanding about the mess.

Wasn't expecting the sight of Low-Light with a mop and wheeled bucket-wringer combo to be gracing the halls, either.

"Hm?" asked the sniper, sunglasses indoors, as taciturn and aloof as usual.

Jinx placed her hands on her hip. With a knowing smirk, she offered, "Shipwreck. He has clean-up duty all month, thanks to that incident during the sexual harassment seminar."

"Seems the general located a bigger foul-up on the team," said Low-Light, not hinting he wished further discussion. As he watched Jinx step away, he cleared his throat and added, "Nice to see you back, by the way."

"I'm sure you are," Jinx said, turning around. "My ego and cute karate outfit say 'thank you.'"

Low-Light nodded, accepted the passive-aggressive scolding. "I can be a salty one at times. But man enough to offer an apology."

Jinx's body language began to ease. "Good to know."

"My old man, he taught me not to let pride trip me up," Low-Light stated as he wringed out the mop. "Was a hard one, y'know. Korea vet. But his heart was in the right place, usually."

"Yes, I think…men of that generation tended to be that way."

Low-Light finished his business with the mop. "Used to lock me out at night. Told me to go down to the junkyard and hunt rats. Said I needed to bring back twenty of 'em if I wanted supper that night."

"Sounds harsh," Jinx offered back. The tone could've been interpreted any number of ways.

"Yeah. But I guess you wouldn't know a thing about that, would you?" asked Low-Light, leaning against his mop. "Growin' up in sunny Southern California."

She turned. Didn't look back as she answered, "Nope. Not a thing."

Any self-reflection, any unbidden thoughts of the past, were eradicated when she spotted a fellow Joe in the intersection of hallways.

"Law! You got time to talk, bud?"

CHAPTER SIX

THE ROMANIAN EXITED THE FRONT OFFICES of Rutherford Broadcast System, briefcase in hand. Slipped on his shades to protect his eyes from the bright Atlanta sun. He thought the aviators, freshly arrived from Italy, complimented his white Perry Ellis ensemble perfectly. Was so lost in thought, so proud of himself, he stepped into traffic without looking. Was nearly flattened by a beer truck.

His second try, he managed to cross the street without incident. Entered the sedan's backseat, casually unlatched the briefcase. Cotton, ink, soap, leather, so many unwashed hands…nothing quite smelled like American currency.

He removed one of the bundles, let his thumb race across the top. "To the airport, driver," he ordered.

"Sure thing. Mr. Rutherford as agreeable as ever?" asked the driver, a Cobra blueshirt who'd been blessed with the prestigious assignment.

"He listens to his tapes like a good boy," answered the Romanian, indulging his underling in the small talk. "Is probably two cassettes away before the bank arrives to collect his every possession, but you have my assurances he'll feel just fine about everything."

The blueshirt tittered. Had the temerity to continue the conversation. "Y'know, seems to me, this is a heckuva racket. Why don't you 'suggest' Rutherford give you access to his video library? Why can't the whole country get their proper orders when they're watching _Mama's Clan_ reruns or that _Beastlord_ movie for the thousandth time?"

The Romanian exhaled. Attempted to control himself. "Because, _driver_ , there's no art in it. My messages aren't disposable pop tunes for the masses. They're _symphonies_ , crafted with the upmost care to coach and charm a chosen target, to use subtlety and panache to reroute their thinking towards its proper path."

This conversation was one he'd engaged in too many times with Mindbender. Him, and that odd bird-fellow who was always floating around, carrying those computer printouts in one hand and calculator in the other. They couldn't grasp why the Romanian was selecting his targets with such care—researching their lives, their ambitions, their anxieties.

Sure, the Cobra heads appreciated every briefcase of cash, but the process was so time consuming. So labor intensive, so… _boutique_. They were in disbelief, when he rejected their plans to insert unconscious commands into this year's "Big Game" event, during the countless advertisements for potato chips and spray butter and wine coolers.

And, with the impending return of their founder, the Romanian could only guess at the future idiocy he'd be forced to endure. They'd been given no option, however. In custody, the viper remained too large of a liability.

"Okay, sure, Mr. Ball. But ain't this the long route to take? Couldn't just one big broadcast 'zap' at least half the country?"

The Romanian slammed the briefcase shut. "I won't be doing that, because what you suggest is _inartful_ , you dolt. Utterly tactless, and not becoming of my ancestry."

The audacity of this ape. Irritating enough, having to tolerate these conversations with the other higher-ups in the organization. But to endure one from a random toady? One lucky to even enjoy a peripheral role in this masterwork?

"Yeah, all right. Just tossing some ideas around, sir," the blueshirt called back, keeping his eyes on the road.

The Romanian leaned forward. " _I_ am not a receptacle for your imprudent notions, lackey. Is this understood?"

"Of course it is, sir."

"And I trust that my ears will no longer be profaned by your foolish fantasies? Your _arrogant_ and _ill-informed_ presumptions on the best use of _my_ talents?"

"A-absolutely, Mr. Ball."

The Romanian returned to his seat. "Fine then."

But it wasn't fine. He stewed for the next hour, grew to despise the sight of the back of that blueshirt's head. Only a call on his car-phone managed to lift his spirits. The Romanian answered, received confirmation the Anaheim operation was a success. Could even overhear the teenage milksop's frightened voice in the background.

He smiled. Tried to enjoy the victory. Had to keep staring at that blueshirt's bald spot.

The ideal revenge had been crafted in time for their arrival at Hartsfield–Jackson. The Romanian made certain he gave the blueshirt a lengthy farewell outside the airport; that the minion understood his precise directions for the afternoon.

They involved a rural area outside the city limits, an unsuspecting farmer's cow pasture, and as the emergency room doctors would later discern, dangerous exposure to E. coli, salmonella, and countless other pathogens.

"SEE, Law. Look at this," she told him, a burning in her eyes.

The quarters were shared by Law and two of his fellow Rawhides, Tunnel Rat and Falcon. The latter was the current cause of concern, per another Rawhide, the perplexing ninja known as Jinx.

She'd pressed for entry into the room, demanding the Joe's resident Military Police hear her concerns. Reluctantly, Law gave Jinx permission to search Falcon's belongings. Her prize discovery? The olive drab duffel bag Falcon used to house his collection of cassettes.

Gripped between Jinx's thumb and index finger was the latest cassette from some underground duo Law had barely heard of. "Both Named John?" she asked, indignant. "Since when does Falcon listen to this college boy nerd rock?"

"Maybe he's expanding his horizons, Jinx. That's no evidence the guy's been brainwashed by little green _hombres_."

Jinx examined the tape. Looked at it as if it really did come from outer space. "He's been acting weird. Left base without even saying goodbye."

Law crossed his arms, smirked. "Yeah, and stood a certain someone up recently too, didn't he?"

He couldn't help himself. It was such an easy opening, and it's not as if it was a secret Falcon had flaked out on a recent date with Jinx. (Rumor had it, Falcon was stepping out on Jinx with a waitress at Rhonda's. Not that Law believed it.) She shouldn't have reacted so angrily, tossing that cassette in his face.

"Look…" Law said, examining the album artwork, not appreciating the abstract graphic design. "…maybe he's working through some things. He'll probably be okay with certain…situations when he gets back from leave. Makes you feel better, I'll talk to him. Let him know he needs to stop acting like such a dope, right?"

Jinx, digging deeper into the duffel bag, spoke with her back turned. "Let him know he needs to go see a shrink." Before Law could question why, she turned around, arms filled with cassettes, all bearing that same oddball cover design. "Because I don't think it's normal, owning _thirty_ copies of the same album."

"I APOLOGIZE, Doctor. We're dealing with heavy icing on antennas at the research station. It could be as much as a week before Rockwitz is able to get into contact with you."

He'd been in high spirits these past twelve hours. In spite of Raptor's needling about the unexpected expenditures on their flight home, and the follow-up "accidental" meeting in the hallway where Raptor presented a series of spreadsheets to emphasize the cost of the Trucial Abysmia job, the doctor allowed nothing to alter his mood.

Any thoughts of financial hardship were easily exchanged with images of his lab. His private shop of horrors, bursting with a healthy (relatively speaking) collection of specimens, numbers surely greater than he'd ever experienced in the past. Each one, an opportunity to reconnect with his roots. To explore the unknown, to once again achieve greatness.

The song in his heart kept whistling, as he entered the number of the Cobra switchboard. Requested the name of a particular operative, one who'd proven his loyalty to the doctor in the past. One who'd been deemed worthy of a set of cochlear implants.

This is when the music stopped.

"And, could you perhaps enlighten your leader as to why, _without my permission,_ Rockwitz was reassigned—with _no warning_ , mind you—to a research base in _Antarctica_?!" Mindbender bellowed into the receiver.

Over the line, the diffident voice of a Tele-Viper responded, "I am, ah, not in a position to comment on, ah, assignment relocations, sir. B-but is there anything else I could aid you with today?"

The doctor didn't answer. Clicked off his transceiver, moved with a steady gait towards the quarters of his supposed ally.

Crystal Ball, simultaneously, was exiting Raptor's office, having turned in his haul from Atlanta. Overheard the _clack_ of Dr. Mindbender's boots down the hall. Allowed the wide grin on his face to grow even wider.

"Our esteemed Mr. Ball," spoke the doctor, a portion of the rage showing in his voice. "Could you spare a moment of your time?"

"Only that much, I'm afraid," the mystic answered, not directly acknowledging his companion as he started for his room. "I have plans for this afternoon, crafting the most delectable method of reconnoitering the subconscious of Blackrock Enterprises' CEO…"

Mindbender placed a hand on Crystal Ball's shoulder. The grip was firm, a warning this politeness was very much a charade. "Only a second, I assure you."

The mystic halted his stride. Deigned to lock eyes with Mindbender. "Ah. So I take this to mean you've been checking in on our friend Rockwitz? Particularly _nasty_ storms they're having down there this time of year."

"How did you convince him to abandon his post? Who's stationed in Anaheim?"

"Oh, the Filchner-Ronne base was in need of more experienced hands. You knew that much." He continued his path to his quarters, seemingly unconcerned if Mindbender followed. "Rockwitz was informed of the bump in salary and accepted his new command. Really, Doctor, there's no drama here."

Mindbender maintained his rival's pace. He questioned how the mystic could've discerned his connection with the blueshirt. If he'd determined the doctor's other confidantes, those worthy of the implants. "Who replaced him?"

He should've known. Even if the inserts neutered the mystic's enchantments, he should have realized other forms of persuasion could weaken a Cobra operative's resolve. Particularly the gold-plated variety.

"An agent with quite the history with our organization," Crystal Ball answered, reaching for the door to his quarters. "Zandar felt his stealth skills were a match for the assignment, and I agreed."

 _Zandar_. Mindbender knew this Dreadnok had been under the mystic's spell before. Damnation, he'd been the one to arrange the Dreadnok's first encounter with Crystal Ball.

"So Zandar agreed to step away from leading our New York operations to take on this low-profile job?" the doctor persisted, not allowing Crystal Ball entry past his doorway. "One normally dispatched to blueshirts?"

The mystic kept grinning, bobbed his head to the side. "Admittedly, I desired to see him humbled a bit. Let him know he'd need to take on such assignments, if he wished to work his way into our better graces." His eyes narrowed, the tone of voice grew more playful. Playful, but with an undercurrent of menace. "Such an odd assignment, really. Tell me, Doctor, does the Anaheim operation hold any particular significance for you?"

Color drained from his face. Mindbender's lip curled as he replied, "None at all. I don't even recall where the detail originated." He added a pause, tried to indicate this thought was only now occurring to him. "In fact, I think this is something I should look into."

Crystal Ball maneuvered past his unwelcome guest. Motioned for him to make his exit. "Hmm…maybe you should do that. Best to keep abreast on all Cobra expenditures, yes?"

CHAPTER SEVEN

JINX STEPPED OUT OF HER RENTAL CAR, postcard in hand. She checked the name on the card against the business signs; found one in this sleepy Fresno strip mall that fit. Burgess Electronics, freshly open for business. Their sign one of those temporary banners, stretched across the building's marquee.

Jinx knew a permanent replacement would never arrive. Tomisaburo and Keiko would be far away, off to the next hiding place. This had been their life, ever since they took in a confused adolescent one summer morning so many years ago.

"Kimi!" cried out a voice. Jinx turned to her right, was welcomed by the sight of her beloved "Aunt" Keiko. "So glad you could find us!"

"I think it's getting harder each time, Auntie," Jinx answered, returning the hug. Most observers would label them sisters, the two women sharing similar heights, fashion choices, and a dearth of crows' feet. Keiko was younger than Jinx today, the day she married into the Arashikage family. Couldn't have expected a girl, young enough to be her sister, arriving at their front door only a few days after they'd returned from their honeymoon.

"Looks like you and Uncle Tommy are one step away from operating a literal hole in the wall."

"As long as the bills are paid, and we're safe…that's what matters."

"The Burgess family, huh? That's a new one." Jinx wrapped her arm around Keiko's waist, squeezed harder. She thought of the various identities crafted by her surrogate aunt and uncle—in reality, her paternal cousin and his wife—over the years, their nomadic lifestyle continuing even after Jinx enrolled at Bryn Mawr. The electronics stores, pawn shops, and rent-to-own places tended to have French, Irish, or English surnames attached. Any time they decided to embrace a bit of their heritage, open up a sushi or _yakimono_ restaurant, they'd adopt a name from the East.

A short name. One easier on American tongues than "Arashikage."

Entering the doors of Burgess Electronics, Jinx and Keiko quickly drew the attention of Tomisaburo, filling out inventory orders at the front desk.

"Hello there, stranger," he said, looking up. "Can I assume you come in peace?"

"It's okay, Uncle Tommy." Jinx leaned over the counter and hugged her "uncle." Thought back to those meetings with her superiors, earlier. Tommy and Keiko could've been in a fair amount of trouble, given the way they slipped out of a police interrogation weeks earlier. It took some coaxing on Jinx's part to get that address out of them, to arrange this mini-peace summit.

"I meant what I said. We are on your side. The lies, the false identities, they need to stop."

Tomisaburo took a breath. "I wish I could believe that. Anonymity is the only way we've been able to stay alive."

The door chime announced the presence of Jinx's guest. "Oh, I think we're in a position to do more than hide now, Uncle Tommy."

His pen dropped from the clipboard to the floor. Tomisaburo stood in silence. Stood, as he witnessed the arrival of a ghost from his past.

Boonie cap and sunglasses shaded most of his face. A closer look would reveal the "face" to in fact be rubber. No mistaking that stance, though, that aura of quiet assurance and casual lethality.

Tomisaburo recognized Snake Eyes in an instant.

NO HOME CUISINE THIS TIME. Delivery pizza had to do, the Arashikage clan engaging in a long overdue chat with Snake Eyes, as best the man's disabilities would allow. Jinx carried much of the conversation, conveying to her family the Joe team's promise to end decades of sorrow.

"So, I suppose the question is," she proposed to the table, "why did the assassin choose the alias Storm Shadow? Was he taking our family name to mock us?"

"That would fit with Blind Master's stories," said Tomisaburo with a nod. "That he represents a rival clan of the Arashikage from back home. Crazy to think, a centuries-old vendetta following what's left of the family here to America."

Throughout the dinner, Tomisaburo kept sneaking looks at their guest. Nearly twenty years had passed since their time in the jungle together. For reasons he'd never discovered, Snake Eyes turned his back on the world after his time in the service, embraced the life of a hermit. Tommy, meanwhile, had been forced into hiding. Pressured into a life on the run, changing identities and cities like some nomad, doing what he felt necessary to protect his family.

What a callous joke for fate to play, severing the bond formed by two brothers in war.

"It's only too bad," Keiko said as she reached for the final slice, "that Snakes here hasn't had a run-in with the assassin yet. I doubt he'd be much of a bother for anyone then."

Jinx turned to her teammate. "I have a feeling that's what the Blind Master was hoping for. Turns out, Snake Eyes was given the same 'encouragement' to enlist I was, when he eventually tracked me down."

Snake Eyes might've been mentally correcting Jinx, clarifying he _re-_ enlisted when joining the Joe team. It's possible he was contemplating his relationship with the Blind Master, the enigmatic sensei's true motives for tutoring him. Kicking himself for never working out the English translation of his Army buddy Tommy's last name. Or questioning why fate had never seen fit for his path to cross with this Storm Shadow's.

Tommy was the one to break the silence. "Can I ask when you joined the Joe squad, Snakes?"

The silent man borrowed Tomisaburo's pen. Scratched out a date on a napkin: March 28, 1981.

His friend accepted the napkin, looked up to Jinx. "Blind Master caught up with me around this time, I remember. Told me to make sure I wasn't 'napping,' I believe he put it. That your monster had returned, Kimi."

"And that's when we moved, yet again…" she said, voice raw. So many years of deceit, of new lies to be adopted in new cities.

"I suppose it was five years later when he bumped into you, wasn't it, Kimi?"

Jinx wasn't ready to answer. A chance meeting, a week after her college graduation. Panhandler on a park bench in Miami magically ended up next to her. Jinx picked up his scent immediately. No interest in catching up, no congratulations on what she'd accomplished in her life. Told her this graduation trip was stupid; a waste of money and her energies.

She snapped back. Wanted to know what exactly the crusty goat thought she should be doing with her life. He certainly gave her an answer. A week later, she was signing papers in that recruiter's office, wasn't she?

Keiko placed a hand on Jinx's arm. "I realize this isn't easy. Hopefully, soon, you can put all of this hardship behind you. Get a chance to enjoy your youth."

"Honestly, I can't see that happening," she replied, unconsciously thinking back to her discovery in Falcon's room; of the unwelcome, utterly stupid crestfallen sickness she couldn't fight when she realized he'd left without saying goodbye. "But I'll deal with it. I don't want to dump all of my problems on you guys."

Tommy cleared his throat. Gave a worried look to Keiko before continuing. "Well, unfortunately, I think you visited just in time for bad news."

"How bad? Are you guys okay?"

"We're fine." Tommy took a breath before continuing. "It's the Blind Master, Kimi."

Tommy gave the news, every unfortunate word of the prognosis. Jinx wasn't expecting that lump in her throat.

 _November 24, 1968_

KEONE KNOCKS ON THE HOTEL DOOR, examines the band on his finger. Eighteen karat gold, the center diamond a gorgeous one carat round gem, accentuated by sparkling side crystals. He thinks of his childhood, reciting the _Gosho_ , his commitment to a life of asceticism and self-restraint, and smiles.

The door opens, revealing on the other side Mr. Ellington's representative. He wears gold around his neck; makes sure his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to expose the jewelry. Doesn't seem to care it's nearing winter here in the upper northwest.

Keone enters the room, isn't stunned to see a party underway. "Magic Carpet Ride" is on the radio. He's familiar with the tune; his English is getting strong enough to comprehend most of the lyrics. They seem ridiculous, but every female he encounters enjoys singing along.

"I'll take you to Mr. Ellington," says the representative. He escorts Keone past the men in suits, dancing with ladies young enough to be their daughters, into a room in the back. Ellington isn't dressed like his subordinates, opting instead for a long-sleeved flannel and jeans. He's enjoying a drink with another man, a small bespectacled figure whose frames have thick sides and a light tortoise color. They swallow his diminutive face.

"Ah, we've been expecting you," Mr. Ellington says as a greeting. Placing his drink on the end table, he asks, "Did you bring the…?"

Keone reaches into his coat pocket, produces a cloth sack the size of a marble bag. Ellington removes the bag from Keone's palm, doesn't even bother to look inside. Instead, he passes it on to the bespectacled man.

He removes his glasses, reaches in his breast pocket for a handheld magnifier instead. Turning to the side, he removes one individual pearl from the sack. Examines it with the magnifier; attempts to disguise his shock.

"They're good; actually it's quite…"—he catches Mr. Ellington's expression—"more than adequate, yes."

Ellington gives in to curiosity. Keone says nothing as the man opens the sack, allows his fingers to caress the pearls. Grunting with satisfaction, he escorts Keone to the adjacent room.

In under a minute, Keone exits with two briefcases. He nods his thanks to the representative who greeted him, then journeys to his town car waiting in the front.

"Where to?" asks his driver, who's learned by now to never offer assistance with these packages. (He also knows not to flirt with the girls in the backseat, although he might occasionally bend that rule.) Keone instructs him to travel to the corner of Dille and Silfer. The driver shakes his head, obeys orders anyway.

"Ana-ta jis-hin ooooh taaanoshinde i-reww?" asks the butterscotch blonde to his left. It is adorable, her thinking she can learn Keone's native tongue.

"Enjoying myself?" he says in return. "Soon," he finishes with a smile.

Seventeen minutes later, the town car enters a conspicuously seedier side of town. The driver reaches the appointed destination and stops. Watches as the foreign kid exits the vehicle, clad in an ivory mohair lounge suit that costs more than his kid's freshman year tuition.

Keone enters the alley with the briefcases, calls out the strange one's name.

"You rang?" responds a sarcastic voice. He emerges from the shadows, as always his face obscured with hat, sunglasses, and scarf. Keone presents to him the briefcases.

The strange one doesn't hesitate, placing the briefcases atop the dumpster. They _click_ open, reveal the heavily regulated ordnance inside.

Military arms, acquired through a series of accounting and inventory tricks mastered by the esteemed Mr. Ellington. Available at a price unimaginable to the average civilian. Mr. Ellington's typical clientele tended to have entire treasuries to raid.

Keone's companion closes the cases, cackles out his approval. Turns to Keone, as he reaches into his coat. "Excellent work," he says, holding the tip of his tongue behind the front teeth for just a second too long, as always.

From his coat, he produces a handful of gilled fungi, the color of fresh salmon, shaped like a broken bell. Keone has traveled half the world these past six months, and has yet to see their like anywhere.

Whoever the stranger is, however he manages to locate these pearls, rubies, and fungi, Keone can't begin to guess. And asking the question, he suspects, is hazardous to his health.

Nothing perilous about those mushrooms, however. Only the sweetest of escapes. He holds the spongey substance to his nostrils, breathes in the intoxicating scent. The spores travel through his nose, granting him a giddy pleasure beyond anything else in this world. Keone thinks of his life in that compound, of the punishment he once endured for sneaking too many biscuits. Thoughts then shift to life on that mountain, of the contradictory pride of living the most simple of lives imaginable.

Laughter shakes his body. Keone's companion joins in.

PART II: KEPT YOU WAITING, HUH?CHAPTER EIGHT

 _GTMO…_

Rocks along the beach gave Falcon's inflatable raft an inhospitable welcome. Did half of the lieutenant's job for him, cutting a hole in the rubber. Making it easier for him to deflate the rest of the raft with his survival knife, the remains left to drift into the Atlantic. Rainstorm carried heavy winds. They'd blow the olive drab material far away from shore before he'd finished his mission.

The briefing warned of the steep hills surrounding the base. Convenient for their purposes, cutting off Camp Alpha from its immediate hinterland. Lt. Falcon exhaled, prepared himself for the climb. Not enough room in his bag for any hiking materials. He embraced the suck, just forced himself northward.

Top of the hill, he nearly had his handsome mug illuminated by the nearby guard tower. Blessed searchlight was keeping the entire area lit like a MLB nighter. Falcon rolled to his left, avoiding the approaching light. Fought off the sudden memories flooding back, of the time Duke took the kid out for a night game at Busch II. Taught him to respect Bob Gibson as the greatest pitcher in League history. Promised he'd do anything he could to get the kid a ball signed by "Gibby" before the night was over.

He managed to pull it off. Of course he did.

Falcon couldn't allow nostalgia to cloud the mission. Keeping his stomach on the grass, he eased towards the lowest elevation of the cliff. When he'd reached the safest spot, he leapt the five feet to the ground. Crept fast as he could towards the guard tower, evaded the spotlight by the tiniest of hairs this time.

Within twenty seconds, he was safe within the light's blind spot. The greenshirt twenty feet above had no clue what was awaiting him.

Falcon took the steps one by one. Rain wasn't letting up; good for obscuring his presence to the naked eye, but it made the rubber soles of his boots nosier than a double-billed Misfits and Stingers concert. Made it past the rim joist without alerting the grunt, though. That was good.

What happened next, Falcon fully expected. Even if the boots didn't give him away, the sound of rain hitting his two-hundred pound-plus frame would eventually stir the watchman. The young patriot turned just as Falcon's chest hit the plywood.

"Lt. Falcon?" he asked, wide-eyed. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Had this been any other Joe operation, Falcon could've bluffed his way through. Told the rookie he'd been reassigned by homebase, that's why he's here. What, the orders hadn't come in yet? Mainframe must've tied up the computer with one of his silly games again.

Falcon pulled himself off the floor. Watched with a fatalistic regret as the greenshirt reached for his sidearm.

This was no ordinary Joe operation. This was the secret facility that housed Prisoner Omega. One of five located in the western hemisphere, each one assigned random dates to house the detainee. Falcon was involved with a game of cards with just the right player a few weeks back. Cryptic comments were made, enabling him to piece together just when the "guest" would be staying at this "hotel."

The lieutenant, acting on unspeakable instinct, reached for the greenie's right arm. Used his superior size to snap that forearm like a brittle twig. And, when the kid was yelping out in pain, planting a right hook directly into his nose.

With the babyface catching zees on the plywood, Falcon manned the searchlight. Made certain it was pointed to his west, the opposing direction of the nearby camp. "GTMO," Falcon whispered to himself, surveying the land.

He used his waterproof Steiner binoculars to peer over the barbed fence to his east. Three more guard towers in the distance, two of them flanking the helipad. Much closer to the fence, a half-dozen portable buildings, newly arrived to house the staff required by their guest. To their northeast, three larger structures, serving the needs of the Naval Station established by Uncle Sugar decades ago.

Falcon descended the stairs; stopped halfway down and simply leapt the rest of the way. His knees didn't appreciate the move, but he reminded himself he had no time to futz around. Staying low, Falcon eased towards the front gate. Bit into the handle of his flashlight, had the lock picked in under a minute. Had to duck behind a tarp-draped stack of lumber the second he closed the gate behind him. A pair of greenshirts was passing by in a jeep, likely cursing the rain and questioning how they got stuck with this assignment.

The lieutenant confirmed the coast was clear, continued to creep past the portable buildings, making his way northward. Cursed himself a fool when he realized the established structures had guards in the front and back entrances. Crouching against the edge of the building, Falcon removed an ammo clip from his backpack. Hoped against hope that the rain wasn't so heavy the guard would miss the sound; that his aim was solid enough to toss the clip where it needed to land.

The faith in his abilities turned out to be justified. The clip curved directly over the guard's head; landed exactly eight inches behind his back. The greenshirt, startled by the _klak_ , turned around. Gripped his service rifle tighter. "What the—?" he asked.

Bending down, he reached for the clip. Heard the _slosh_ and _squeak_ of Falcon's boots against the asphalt just in time to halt; to turn and face his attacker. The lieutenant cheated death for the second time this evening, snatching the rifle barrel. An impromptu front thrust kick landed in the greenie's gut. Butt of the pilfered rifle took care of the rest.

Falcon studied the body. Clear eyes would discern a waterproof nylon poncho, covering the standard issue G. I. Joe uniform and helmet. The style apportioned to the infantrymen assigned to aid the unit on certain missions, the sea of faceless grunts affectionately termed greenshirts. In a different state of mind, he would've thought of one of Duke's stories from some time ago.

Colonel Sharpe had sent a memo, requesting the Joe team no longer use that term. Feared it might be viewed by some of the infantrymen as condescending, as a putdown from the higher ranking soldiers officially assigned to the special missions unit. Had to retract it a week later, when he discovered that the greenshirts, or "greenies," wore that term as a badge of honor.

(The term coined by Shipwreck for the greenshirts—"NDJs," as in "Non-descript Joes"—continued to be frowned upon, however.)

Ordinarily, Falcon could swipe this poor sap's gear, get on with the mission. But, again, this wasn't the standard Joe op. Assuming the identity of just any rank and file wouldn't do.

The lieutenant ascended the five steps, rapped three times on the building's backdoor. "Sir, there's something out here!" he bellowed with urgency. "Something you need to see!"

In the doorway soon stood a man made of stone, his rigid brown flattop seemingly made of the same granite as his chin. Mercer, ex-Viper turned stalwart member of Slaughter's Renegades likely didn't possess a look of concern. Only a stoic mien honed over a lifetime of battle.

"Huh? Lt. Falcon?" he asked, the Teutonic accent highlighting the absurdity of Spencer, West Virginia as Mercer's official birthplace. (Standard rumor around base indicated the Brass would do anything to keep his true identity a secret, an additional protection against any Cobra retaliation.)

The lieutenant grabbed him by the vest; had a visceral reaction to Mercer's anti-Cobra patch that he couldn't explain. "Listen, we need to talk," Falcon said, closing the door behind him.

"Why are you here? I wasn't notified—" Mercer began, the question stopped short when he realized Falcon was reaching for his shoulder holster.

Mercer gripped Falcon's arm, directed the gun away from his face. The round hit the ceiling. No second round was fired, as Mercer had restrained both of Falcon's arms in his vice-like embrace. A sudden squeeze forced Falcon to drop the pistol.

The lieutenant watched the gun hit the carpet, felt motivated enough to wrestle one arm free of Mercer's grip. Wasn't in a position to make the cleanest hit imaginable, but did connect with a solid chop against his neck. The pain was enough to send Mercer a step back, to force him to release his grip.

Falcon turned towards the nearby pistol. Was only an inch away from the handle when he felt Mercer pulling him by his belt, pulling him closer for a beating worthy of the record books. Falcon accepted the first two punches, one to the shoulder, another to the chin. Thought he was clever, ducking low, maneuvering to Mercer's side. Didn't foresee the Swedish massif moving just as fast, grabbing Falcon by the waist and pulling him closer.

The lieutenant recognized the chokehold from his abortive attempts at high school wrestling. Had a feeling Mercer was playing for stakes much steeper than the intramural championship. Wouldn't be hard to count off the seconds before the lights would begin to fade—assuming Falcon sat there like a chump and did nothing.

Whatever energy the lieutenant still possessed was exerted in a headbutt, smashing the reformed Viper's nose and dislodging two of his teeth. " _Yeerrraahh!_ What happened to you, Lieutenant?"

If Falcon registered the words, no one would notice. His concentration was on taking another shot; a pathetic jab that nearly forced him to lose his footing. Mercer, only bolstered by his anger, seized Falcon's wrist with his right hand. Gaining a stronger grip with his left, Mercer flung Falcon eastward, sailing him into the oak briefing table that rested in the center of the command post.

The wood shattered into countless pieces. Falcon's body laid still on the carpet as Mercer stepped closer. He suspected his former compatriot was playing possum; didn't matter. He'd deal with whatever feeble maneuver Falcon would play next. He'd be sure to end the insanity this time.

Couldn't have expected Falcon to roll back over, to lift a grenade from his belt. "Nah, I don't think you want to be steppin' any closer, snakebreath."

"You wouldn't—"

Falcon stood, index finger inserted into the grenade ring, allowing the explosive to dangle. "I'd do it in a heartbeat. You already think I'm crazy, don't you?"

Mercer committed an act he'd never stooped to in all his years as a Cobra or Joe—he took a cautious step back. "We can talk this out, Lieutenant. This doesn't have to end bad."

The lieutenant smiled, tossed the grenade into the air. "Doesn't it?"

Mercer took two steps forward, leapt for the pineapple. Felt the impact of Falcon's fist against his most delicate of regions a millisecond after making the move. Down on the floor, Mercer overheard the slight _thud_ of the grenade (pin intact) landing on the carpet.

Had no opportunity to move, as Falcon positioned himself over his shoulders. Mercer realized he was in a headlock similar to the one he'd employed a minute earlier.

This was no sleeper move, however. This was twisting, deep pressure, a horrific pain that he knew couldn't be endured for long.

This was a series of pops, foreshadowing the final unbearable sound of the _crack_!

This was the sound of his neck breaking.

CHAPTER NINE

TWO OF THE Crimson Guardsmen were holding the containers. Gifts from their mysterious benefactor, specially constructed specimen ampules. The twins were careful to select the most surefooted of their guard. Risking the loss of those specimens was no option.

The rest were keeping a tight grip on their automatic weapons.

The guard had been instructed to maintain their cool, not to present any discernable reaction when the time came. Even under those masks, however, you could detect more than a few jaws popping open.

Not every day a portal to another dimension rips through the fabric of reality. Certainly not here, on a lonesome stretch of the highway, connecting DC to Baltimore.

A figure emerged from the light. Behind him, his own personal sentinels.

"Hm. Interesting," spoke the baritone voice of Destro.

"A visit from our benefactor in person?" asked Tomax, stepping to the front.

Xamot followed close. "We're honored."

"I couldn't resist the opportunity," said Destro, still eyeing the surroundings. "Another world—I'd say it's quite remarkable, if it weren't so…"

"Prosaic?"

"Mundane?"

Joining the pavement, crickets, and overgrown grass was a billboard. The newly installed municipality had ripped off the canvas; hadn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Only a year earlier, it featured an image of the vainglorious Cobra Commander, his arms stretched wide, embracing the entire globe.

Tomax said with a glint in his eye,"We're working on restoring our world's previous glory."

Somehow, through that mask, Destro's grin was evident. "And the materials you've been acquiring on my behalf could've done just that? Is this what you believe?"

"Would you blame us—"

"—For considering the notion?"

Destro approached, his body language relaxed enough not to elicit any shots from the guard. "I'd be disappointed if you did anything less. I'll also suspect you found your world's incarnation of the good doctor to be something of a disappointment?"

Xamot gasped, asked, "How did you—?"

"M.A.R.S. Industries employs the finest computer technicians on…any world. They detected your hack and informed me immediately."

Tomax cleared his throat. "I trust this indiscretion won't interfere with business?"

Destro turned to his men, snapped his fingers. Two of his guard approached with the chest, the one recovered from the Atlantic by an M.A.R.S. expedition months earlier. Viking treasure; silver coins, ingots, and priceless jewelry the hooligans had pilfered along Scandinavia.

"Think nothing of it," Destro said as the exchange was made. "If I weren't in possession of my own biases, I'd gladly aid your cause."

Tomax eyed Destro, admiring one of the canisters. "We lost several men claiming these samples, by the way."

"The incident at Vlad Tepes' burial place was particularly gruesome," added Xamot.

"Fitting," Destro stated, unmoved. Turning towards the strange light, he said, "Well, I suppose our business here is complete."

"Indeed," Tomax agreed. "And if you require any other favors…"

The masked dignitary stopped. "I suppose there is something else. Perhaps you could ease my curiosity. On your world, how have I fared in all of"—he gestured towards the billboard, an insignificant scrap of the Commander's painted uniform still lingering on the canvas _—_ "this?"

"Oh, dear Destro. You haven't heard?" asked Xamot.

Destro's emerald eyes peered.

Tomax allowed a smile to slip. "You're dead."

CHAPTER TEN

NO BLOOD ON THE UNIFORM. Good. And the synthetic mask Falcon kept hidden in his backpack had remained dry throughout the rain, so perhaps this had turned out to be a charmed mission after all.

Falcon adjusted the adhesive against his jawline, made certain his new face wouldn't be popping off at any inopportune moments. Stepping out of Mercer's back door, he noticed that he'd left the rear guard's body out on the asphalt. He carried the greenshirt inside, positioning him inside a closet with a chair pressed against the outside doorknob. Having made certain to take that poncho this time, Falcon sauntered towards Camp Alpha's heliport.

Walking along the main roadway, a flatbed pulled close. Falcon eased his stride. The greenshirt applied the brakes, looked close at the stranger.

"Oh! Mercer, sir. Didn't realize that was you. It's gettin' pretty heavy out. You want a ride?"

The lieutenant nodded, walked around to the passenger side. Realized in that moment he lacked the skill of a Flint or Chuckles in the department of foreign accents. Decided to offer a smile as a hello as he entered the vehicle.

"I assume you're headed for the admin building?" asked the driver.

The lieutenant gave another nod, then turned his attention to the passenger side window. The greenshirt told himself to ignore the insult, to respect the fact that the man had things on his mind.

Seven silent minutes later, the truck entered the guard post for the heliport's administration building. The checkpoint was utilizing retinal scanners, a fact not made known to Falcon in his briefing. He tried not to dwell on the screw-up—his people had done admirable work, providing him an aerial map of the camp on such short notice. He couldn't have expected a perfect job.

"First time entering the admin building, boot? Got to peer into this baby," said the vet on duty to the driver.

 _Still_ , Falcon thought, as he witnessed the greenshirt submit his peepers to the silver and chrome scanning device, _anything less than perfect in an op like this can leave a man without a pulse_.

Guard on duty turned out to be, of all the Joes, Steeler. Recently returned—no lie—from a mission on a parallel world. All Joe missions are designated Top Secret, but this fiasco had been granted a ranking previously unknown. Top Secret-SCI-XX, a ranking only select DoD and Executive Office officials could access. A hush-hush meeting among General Hawk, the Joes involved with the mission, and a white-faced POTUS ended with a firm conclusion—this had to stay quiet, for more than national security concerns. Discovering our world was but one of an infinite order could very likely disrupt the fabric of civilized society.

" _Lovely_ weather, ain't it?" asked the weary voice of Steeler, as he examined the computer monitor, awaiting the driver's retinal scan to clear.

"Just part of the job," replied the greenshirt. He respected Steeler as a veteran Joe, sure. But could never appreciate just what rested behind those gunmetal eyes.

Years back, a squad of Joes found themselves in that alternate reality, a world where Cobra had decimated the Joes, taken most of the world captive. The newly arrived Joes did what they could to fight back; helped to instigate a civil war between the Cobra Commander and Destro factions. Steeler, along with two of his squadmates, decided to stick around the strange reality and carry on the fight.

Rumor was, Steeler had a sweetie on this other world. That things went sour, that she hadn't turned out to be what he'd hoped. With relative order restored to that bizarre world, and the emotional bonds severed, Steeler and the others felt no guilt returning to this reality. And for the Joes who knew the old Steeler, he hadn't been the same since. Not that anyone had the clearance to ask him question one about what happened.

Steeler's disagreeable expression didn't change as the monitor flashed a green "Approved" notification. Just nodded, directed his companion in the booth to open the yellow-and-black barrier gate.

Entering the garage, the driver turned to his guest. "You need me to drop you off anywhere specific, sir?"

The lieutenant waved his hand dismissively. Had already stepped out of the vehicle before it'd even stopped rolling. Falcon walked through two more hallways, experienced a half-dozen more salutes, in addition to a few puzzled glances. He examined his surroundings. First floor: crates, oil barrels, motorized carts, a few dozen greenshirts performing grunt work and a handful of interior guards maintaining their patrol.

His target resided in the basement level. A floor Mercer had no business being on at this hour of the night, per the intel he'd collected earlier. Any other level of the admin building wouldn't have been an issue. The greenshirts would smile and salute and do anything short of asking for an autograph. But the basement, on this date…absolutely not.

The lieutenant stepped cautiously towards the stairway, caught almost too late the mounted security camera located at a forty-five degree angle above the steps.

Falcon leaned back against the wall, careful not to step into the camera's field of vision. Reached into his backpack, located a suppressor. Attached it to his sidearm with his back to the wall. Turned around, caught one grunt pushing a squeaky cart packed with service parts down the hallway to his left. Waited for him to pass before taking his shot.

The _clang_ of the wrecked camera hitting the concrete floor was louder than the actual gunshot. Falcon had misgivings about the move; he knew that missing camera would be noticed soon. Wasn't certain he had enough time to finish his job before the inevitable alarm would sound. As he descended the stairway, he attempted to console himself, tell himself there was no other way.

He'd been telling himself that quite often these past few hours.

No guards immediately stationed by the stairway, but he could hear the steps of a greenshirt in the hall. When he discerned the footsteps headed in the opposing direction, Falcon entered the hall, made a fast check of his surroundings. Three indoor boilers were lined against the wall, leaving a crack in the corner just small enough for the lieutenant to squeeze into. Careful not to step too fast, Falcon reached the corner without incident.

Studying the pattern of the guard, a vile realization hit Falcon. Taking down that security cam was sure to draw attention. This act when discovered, however, would send the entire base into high alert. And he knew he had no choice.

As the guard reached the end of the opposing hallway, he turned back around, turned towards those boilers. The lieutenant knew he'd be spotted in only a matter of seconds. Had to time his shot just right—not too soon, to prevent the guards in the adjacent hallway from noticing; not too late, to prevent the greenshirt from spotting him in that corner.

The lieutenant delayed the shot for as long as he could. Waited until the guard had that slight flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Directed that lone suppressed shot directly between those eyes.

Stepping quickly, Falcon pulled the guard off the floor, shoved his lifeless form into the space between the boilers. Some part of him was sickened by the act, but he assuaged himself with a simple bromide: _He woulda done worse to you, Falcon, were the positions reversed_.

Back against the wall, Falcon approached the intersection of hallways. The files he'd flipped through in Mercer's office confirmed what he'd find only a few feet away. Only thing standing in his way were the two voices he overheard, engaging in oblivious chit-chat.

"You no watch big game? I find that hard to believe!"

"Players' strike did me in, bud. Can't imagine ever walking out of the game over something petty like a free-agent policy. It's like, do you want to play, ladies, or don't you?"

Have to do something to alieve the boredom during guard duty. Taurus and Red Dog, two of the Sarge's Renegades. Taurus, a former Interpol agent who'd earned a rep for his work throughout Europe and Asia, was chewing the fat with his ex-NFL buddy. Seems the League found Red Dog a mite too aggressive for Sunday play. They should've seen his performance against a battalion of Vipers.

In his earliest days with the unit, Falcon had been sent to their Slaughterhouse boot camp, been given the order to shape up or ship out. He'd never say it out loud, but he admired those lugs. Felt he owed his place on the team to the discipline they'd smacked into him out there in the desert.

None of these thoughts were present at this moment. All mental effort was diverted towards the perfect stratagem to clear that hallway. The plan Falcon developed was rather bold, and darned cheap, but he figured it his best bet for leaving this heliport alive.

Falcon located that grenade he'd used to bluff Mercer earlier. Pulled out the pin, released the spoon, and heaved it towards those boilers. He raced into the adjoining hallway, praying Taurus and Red Dog wouldn't shoot on sight.

"Guys!" he yelled with alarm, not even attempting to fake Mercer's accent. "You won't believe—"

Before the befuddled Renegades could respond, the _Wa-Wa-BOOM_ detonation filled the air, shook the ground, and caused instant debris to fall from the ceiling.

"Mercer! What in _blazes?_ " asked Red Dog, slipping his rifle sling into position.

The lieutenant pointed towards the source of the chaos. "Down there! You wouldn't believe it! You have to—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Only watched as the motivated Red Dog and Taurus ran past. And when they'd reached the appropriate distance, nailed both of them with his sidearm. The lieutenant should've been overwhelmed with disgust and grief over his reactions. Shouldn't have noticed how nice the groupings were in both of their backs.

Alarm sirens had begun their screech. Falcon ran to the position formerly held by Red Dog and Taurus. Inserted the G. I. Joe ID card stolen from Red Dog's body and watched as the laser prison bars evaporated.

"You do realize this racket is interrupting my beauty ressst, don't you?" asked the figure on the inside.

"Sheesh," Falcon said, blasting away the chains connecting his ally to the cot. "Your sense of humor get even worse in here, brother?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE ROMANIAN ENTERED THE DARKENED ROOM. Removed his linen sport coat and greeted his guest.

"You…I recognize your voice from the phone."

"Yes, Bobby. Do you remember our conversations? How upset you were? How I helped you to understand—"

"I don't really remember the details. I can remember having a panic attack, and then your friends put you on the line…after that, it's like everything just seemed okay."

"Well, lad, I'm happy I could help calm your nerves."

"But it's _not_ okay. I shouldn't be here. I should be back…back with that woman…in that house…"

" _Should_ you, Bobby? I recall our conversations quite clearly, friend. I remember you speaking of this woman, of the way her clothes reeked of sulfur."

"No, I…I don't remember that at all."

"I think that you do. I think you recall her breath that stank of raw cabbage. And her hair carried the acrid stench of vomit, didn't it? The walls of her home, wafting with the horrid smell of rotting cadavers? These are all things that you know, Bobby."

"I…do I?"

"You do. You also recall the scent of the man she chased away. The noble, kindhearted father you lost four years ago. Smelled of sandalwood and bergamot oranges. I want you to think back to that sublime redolence. You could never forget dear ol' Dad, could you?"

"I remember her talking about him. Saying that we weren't discussing him again. I…I used to ask where he went."

"And what was her answer, Bobby?"

"She cried. Harder each time. Eventually, she made that rule. The woman with the smell that makes me sick…is that her?"

"She's irrelevant now. You'd best move on with your life; find some way to forgive her for chasing your father away."

"And, you know my father?"

"Indeed I do. And I'll be happy to arrange a reunion. Yes, I think it's past time you become reacquainted with other members of your family. The ones that don't carry the foul stench of rotted eggs."

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE GREENSHIRTS DID THEIR BEST, focusing automatic fire on the chopper invading Camp Alpha's heliport. A well-placed missile from the Cobra Transport Copter took out the nearest guard tower before it landed; a second scattered a greenshirt resistance instantly.

Falcon and Prisoner Omega pirouetted in-between the fire, bolting from the prison wing's rear exit to the helipad. Three Battle Android Troopers emerged from the Copter, offering cover fire for their human betters. One had its head blasted open thirteen seconds after deployment; the other two made out okay. With hammering hearts, Falcon and his newly freed ally entered the twin-engine heavy-lift helicopter.

"You okay, brother?" Falcon asked, examining the orange jumpsuit for bullet holes. Oblivious to the rain, their Battle Android pilot used its navigational upgrade to guide the helicopter to safety.

"Jussst dandy, Lieutenant. And, affectionate joshing aside, do know that I appreciate the effort you've undergone."

When the CTS reached a safe distance, Falcon stepped towards the cockpit. "Well, I told them they needed to make sure you were comfortable up here. Let's see how well those grunts follow orders…"

In the seat next to the android pilot was a thermos of blistering Major Dickason's coffee, a heated towel, and the latest edition of the _USA Times._ Falcon returned to the back, offered the bounty to his personal hero. "I'd rank that a B+. More of a _Post_ man, myself."

Prisoner Omega silently motioned for Falcon to take his seat. Before sipping the coffee, he had to pause, remind himself there was no cumbersome helmet to remove. How odd it still felt, his naked face exposed in mixed company. And to think the "face"—so young, handsome, and lantern-jawed—wasn't his at all…

Falcon, still admiring this naked face, couldn't ignore that smile. "Why the grin, bro? You haven't even turned to the funnies."

With a disquieting pride, Prisoner Omega presented the paper's front page to his companion.

 _Washington Prepares for Wednesday's USSR Summit. Chemical and Conventional Weapons on Agenda. Critics Voice Opposition._

"I believe an unexpected opportunity has crossed our path. When we return to the States, I have a particular travel location I'd like to suggessst…brother."

SHE COULD'VE STOLEN A LOOK at the chart attached to his bed. Finally discovered, after so many years, the old gasbag's real name. Couldn't bring herself to do it, though.

"You know how cheesed off I was when I found out you're rich, sensei?" She'd been examining his room instead, taking in the chichi ambiance of the place. (And dismissing the supercilious looks of the staff, unappreciative of her faded "Be All You Can Be" t-shirt and ratty jeans.)

"'Rich' is a relative term, girl," the aged man spoke from his hospital bed, connected to an obscene number of tubes and wires. "I abandoned any desire for material possessions as a young man, but that didn't stop the interest on my investments from growing. Money comin' in, none goin' out…I guess it adds up."

At least he's getting some use out of it now, she reasoned. Pancreatic cancer. Terminal, yet surrounded by the nicest accommodations of his life. "Uh-huh. And it's not as if you could've used any of that filthy mammon, when you were…oh, I don't know…raising an eleven-year-old girl out in the streets, huh?"

" _Pff._ Don't be so dramatic, girl. It was LA, not Chicago. Streets did you good; toughened you up nice."

"Did _too_ good a job, did they?" Jinx asked, reliving, as she had so many times lately, the day she met Tommy and Keiko.

"Seemed to me. Maybe I made the wrong call," he replied, his voice trailing off. "But it does this old man's heart good, having you as company."

"I guess you were lonely a few weeks back, weren't you? Thought I needed a companion on my trip to Ireland?"

"Ol' Blind Master has to keep some mystery, Kimi." He said warmly, head turned to the ceiling. "Can't be spilling all my secrets. I see you did listen to me the last time, though."

She thought of their last encounter, in the corporeal sense, a few years back. Seemed random, an unbelievable coincidence, at the time. "Yeah, I signed up. Earned a promotion or two."

"Good, good. The service changed my life, you know. Thought it could do you some good, all young an' cute with no direction."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure that was it, sensei."

"Of course. Blind Master, always lookin' out for your best interests." A nurse entered. The sensei shushed his former pupil as the eye-catching redhead checked his chart and forced a few ounces of orange juice down his throat.

When the coast was clear, he continued, "By the way, totally unrelated"—he smiled again, wider—"you wouldn't happen to run into someone else in your unit fluent in a bit of _Okinawan kobudō_?"

Jinx, arms crossed, asked, "Which you knew would happen, didn't you?"

"Only if you were the best of the best. He ever mention me?"

Assuming this wasn't a joke, she replied, "Snake Eyes isn't much of a raconteur."

"Guess not. I do remember him as the strong an' silent type." Blind Master reached out his hand, best he could. Jinx navigated past the IV tube connected south of his fingers and squeezed. Tried not to recoil as she felt the iciness in his skin. "You need to stick close by him, though."

"And can I be honored to know the reason why?"

"He's not Arashikage blood, but he's like me. Owes that debt. You'll need each other."

And, as if on cue, the blinds rustled. Footsteps entered the room. Jinx didn't have to look up to acknowledge their guest. Blind Master recognized the presence immediately, emitted a gasp of surprise.

"Yeah, that's him, sensei," she spoke as Snake Eyes stepped towards the bed. "Making the only kind of entrance he understands—the dramatic kind."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN HIS PRIVATE CHAMBERS, the mogul was examining one of his favorite pieces. Robert Gibb's _The Thin Red Line_ , 1881. A celebration of Sutherland Highlanders and their battle against a heavily armed Russian cavalry charge. The museum currently displaying the piece actually believed they possessed the original.

On this night, the work of art brought him little joy.

"I see you're still keeping secrets," he said dispassionately, not removing his eyes from the painting.

"Oh, really?" teased a voice, coming from his bed.

"This other world. I had to assume I had my own doppelganger there. But, whenever I broached the topic—"

"You went there yourself, didn't you? Even after I warned you, even after—"

The admonition was not well received. "I'm my own man, understand that? And for you to stay so vague, to keep from me what I must know..."

"Is it truly relevant?"

"Of course it is," he snapped, finally turning back to face her. "You could've told me. Could've told me he'd…"

"The casualties are innumerable there," she rebutted, her tenor anything but soft, yet it carried a measure of sympathy. For a man like the mogul to face his own mortality, she recognized this could not be an easy thing. "You, or this other 'you,' was not alone in this fate."

His hands gripped her wrists. "Is that why you traveled here? Am I to be his replacement?" Hurt crept into his normally steady baritone. "Your second choice?"

The corners of her lips rose, seemingly amused by this display of ego, the pathetic attempt at intimidation. "Darling, are we pretending I'm not serving a similar function?"

PART III: BACK TO THE BEGINNINGCHAPTER FOURTEEN

ARMS THICKER THAN TREE TRUNKS, wrapped around his chest. By Falcon's estimate, only fifteen seconds remained before his oxygen would fully give out. Before this inhuman beast squeezed the literal life out of him.

Wasn't how the lieutenant ever figured he'd leave the service, on the receiving end of a bear hug. One delivered by a living bat creature with a monosyllabic vocabulary and rancid squid breath.

Desperate, no other options left, Falcon made the move. Not one he was proud of, maneuvering his head like a snake and biting the wrist of that creature. Humiliating. He could just hear Tunnel Rat and Law giving him grief over this one. Solid month of heckling, easy. Assuming it even worked, that Falcon could tear through enough flesh and evoke the proper response from those nerve endings.

He couldn't.

The creature groaned out more nonsense, clearly irritated, but did nothing to release his grip. For just a moment, Falcon thought he heard the beast's guttural babble come out as _rhymes_. He told himself he really was getting delirious now.

Still trapped in that bodylock, Falcon had no choice but to accept the inevitable. Just embrace that darkness, and have a sweet thought or two about those loved ones he was about to rejoin.

His father Adriano. Grandmama Giorgia. Uncle Tony. Big brother Conrad.

No, that last one wasn't right. Why would he think that?

The sound of the fire extinguisher's metal _clang_ against the beast's cranium aroused Falcon from this funk. The grip of his opponent reflexively loosened, freeing Falcon from the bodylock. Falcon stood, watched with pride as his hero took another swing with that dented fire extinguisher. Smashed the monster right in his wretched teeth. Had to leap over a foot in the air to connect, but this did nothing to diminish the coolness of the move.

"Jussst grab the drive. I'll keep him busy!"

Falcon nodded, told himself he didn't hear that fear in his brother's voice, as he headed for the intricate computer setup lining the wall of this backroom. Judging from the outside, the building was indistinguishable from any other county extension office populating the rural roads leading to Fresno. You'd never guess what was stationed inside. Never dream just what those spooks were digging up, just how deadly it could be for international relations.

The lieutenant calmed himself enough to recite the steps explained to him earlier; typed in the command prompt, ordered the release of the drive. Directly south of the 55" monitor, the drive jutted out of its home—gentle _pfff_ sound, release of steam accompanying its exit.

Falcon eagerly removed the drive from the computer, all eight inches of space age chromium menace, and placed it under his armpit. Shaped like the pneumatic tube containers his father once kept at his office, the computer illiterate Falcon couldn't begin to appreciate the technological marvel in his possession. An astonishing thirty-two megabytes of information, an exponential leap over the computer power required to send man to the moon, all wrapped up in a sleek, easy to carry cylinder.

Thirty-two megabytes of the juiciest secrets divined from various telephone and computer correspondences within the USSR. From the lowliest state budget analysis to the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, no dirty laundry was safe. Maybe Falcon didn't know the first thing about computers, but he knew the importance of keeping this info out of the hands of certain lowlifes.

"I've got the drive! We need to blow this stand!" he announced to his companion. With apprehension, Falcon observed his fair-haired hero dodge the advance of the inhuman beast. He needn't have worried–two lucky hits from the fire extinguisher were enough to exhaust the beast. As Falcon's idol parried, the monster lost his footing, collapsed like a decrepit bridge onto the floor.

Falcon and his ally didn't waste the opportunity, racing out of the backroom, down the hidden hallway, into the main office area. In addition to Falcon's terminated robotic allies, bodies of fallen Cobra creeps littered the floor. The Crimson Twins. Copperhead. Scrap-Iron. Two or three Dreadnoks. Falcon had no opportunity to count the bodies, didn't realize one was missing until he heard that heinous voice from behind.

"Think yer gettin' away that easy, are you?" asked Major Bludd, his black rocket pistol aimed in the brothers' direction.

"You're one to talk about 'easssy,' with that glasss jaw," teased Falcon's idol. He had a point; Bludd was the first viper to fall during the battle, out like a light with just one punch. Only now did Falcon realize the rabid dingo could've been running a con.

"We still outnumber you, Bludd, even if you got the drop on us," Falcon warned.

His lips twisted to form a grin. "Doubtin' how fast I am with a pistol? Dangerous odds you're runnin.'"

Falcon was forced to pause, take a moment to compose himself. Not because Bludd had a point, no. But for just a second there, it sounded as if his Aussie accent turned a bit… _Cajun_. The lieutenant was sorting through the contradiction when his brother, hands now raised, stepped forward.

"You're right. No need to risk the loss of an innocent life. I'll surrender myself. You can brag about taking in the Grand Poobah, get whatever promotions you can out of your bosses," he said as he slowly approached Bludd. "Just leave my brother out of thisss."

"Yeah, right," Bludd responded, on the edge of laughter. "You think I'm lettin' him get away with—"

Bludd didn't finish the sentence, thanks to the searing gunshot connecting with his right wrist. Falcon might've been slightly out of sorts, but he didn't need a building to fall on him. As his brother offered his "surrender," Falcon surveyed the landscape. One of those Dreadnok slime had a hand cannon still tucked into his chest holster. Less than a foot away from the lieutenant.

"Let's get out of here!" he shouted, already moving towards the front door. Falcon's ally took a quick glance in his direction—then turned back towards his opponent.

Couldn't resist the urge; just had to slug that creep one final time. Prove just how fragile that jaw really was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

GUNG-HO, appearing via the advanced technology of telecommunications, spoke solemnly from his hospital bed.

"The B.A.T.s entered first. Just laid down a field of fire, had all of us duckin' for the floor. Took a few seconds for us to realize who was coming in after 'em. And, gotta say, I'm not sure which was the worst surprise."

Not that he'd complain, but the Marine nearly lost his life over something he still didn't entirely understand. Spooks would come in every few days, check the computers, and leave. Occasionally, you might cajole one of them into discussing last night's game, but that'd be the extent of the conversation. Until recently, the Joes viewed the mission as an easy, but infuriatingly boring, assignment.

"Understood, Gung-Ho," answered General Hawk from eight hundred miles away.

Standing next to him was Scarlett, putting on the bravest face imaginable. "Can you give us an update on the other Joes?"

"Footloose, Barbeque, Rock 'n Roll and I should be discharged in a day or so. Roadblock, though, got the worst of it. Always thought that guy could withstand any kind of beatin', but I suppose several rounds with a fire extinguisher would do it to anybody. He's regained consciousness, but the docs say he's not gonna be released for another week, at least."

Hawk nodded. "We'll have a good thought for him. Meantime, I want every one of you goldbrickers to listen to what the doctors have to say. Nobody has to play the hero; the team's gonna reclaim that drive."

Omitted from this pep talk were any revelations about the events at Camp Alpha _._

"All due respect, sir, if that drive isn't recovered—"

The televised image of Gung-Ho contorted, got twisted into oblivion, before it was replaced with the prognathic jaw of the team's erstwhile First Lieutenant.

"Well, well. If this ain't a grisly sight," he spoke with his characteristic condescension.

"Lt. Falcon! Do you have any idea—"

"Calm yourself, snakebreath. I won't be hogging your airwaves for long. Just wanted you Cobra creeps to understand the severity of the situation."

"Falcon, what in blazes are you—"

Scarlett squeezed Hawk's shoulder. "Let him finish, General."

"You know by now that we have your precious drive. And we're not dopes. We realize what kind of leverage this gives us. So, lucky you, I won't waste your time. We're prepared to return this tin cylinder of ohs an' ones, _if_ you can meet our price."

Scarlett took a breath. Answered calmly, "And, Lieutenant, what would that be?"

"Glad you asked, four-eyes. You snakes thought you pulled one over on us, overtaking the Defiant space shuttle's construction team. Yeah, didn't think we knew about that one? I had to clear this with the Brass—and, trust me, they weren't thrilled—but they agreed to a peaceful resolution. You get this drive back, provided you clear out the Defiant crew of all reptilian personnel. No space shuttle for you snakes, sorry 'bout that, but you can retrieve this chrome doohickey here without a single shot fired. Sound fair? Okay, don't really care if it does. But it's the smartest—and _safest_ —move your sorry organization is ever gonna make."

Hawk's fist clinched. "This is unbelievable…"

"Well, you'd 'bessst' believe it, lisp boy. Contact this freek when you have the answer. You snakes have twenty-four hours…"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"QUITE THE PERFORMANCE," complimented the Commander, seated next to Falcon.

"Just hope those reptiles got the message, brother."

Falcon's "sibling" did not respond. Too distracted by his own transceiver, and the loyal agent who wasn't answering the call.

He was cursing the silence, questioning what on earth could be distracting his faithful ninja…

STORM SHADOW CREPT INSIDE a third-story window. Wasn't certain of the exact room, just relying on the peculiar whispers that led him here in the first place. Why he should care about this hospice, why some song in his soul would keep whistling its name, he couldn't say.

Down the hallway, a conversation was occurring. The fading voice of a life tempered by hardship and regret—sentiments that could only now be expressed. Final confessions, the revelation of half-truths and outright lies. The old man prays this surrogate family understands his motivations held no malice.

Storm Shadow could hear his name being evoked, hear it through a different set of ears. A name he no longer used, an identity long abandoned. How could this old man know?

The squeak of an orderly's sneakers entered the hall, broke the ninja's concentration. Storm Shadow located a hiding place behind a janitor's cart. Irritation was short-lived. He recognized the young man's entrance as fate—they were the same size, after all.

SURROUNDING THE BLIND MASTER were Jinx, Tommy, Keiko, and (behind a rubber mask) Snake Eyes. His condition had worsened in the previous twenty-four hours; he caught on to this before the doctors realized it, actually. Jinx recognized the change in his demeanor. No more busting of chops and kidding around. The sensei ordered his former pupil to make the phone calls, ensure the family would be reunited.

"Was tryin' to save everyone all of that hurt…my fault I screwed up so bad…"

Those were his opening words, once Tommy and Keiko arrived. They tried to calm him, give him permission to depart this world in peace.

Blind Master admonished them for patronizing him. Wanted to know for sure Tommy was close. A squeeze of the hand confirmed it.

The old sensei thanked the family for taking him in, during those days after the war. For giving an angry blind American purpose—purpose, and a new home.

New home, new family, new way of thinking…new appreciation for this world.

The first tears hit Tommy's cheeks, as childhood memories flashed. The odd, dark man who wandered across his uncles' path one day. Their deep affection for the man, the first outsider in a dozen generations to be accepted by the Arashikage.

Their blind friend was still young then. Tommy only realized this now. Hands were clinched tighter, letting the man know he needn't offer any thanks or apologies.

"No…too many sins to leave without a confession, boy," the old man whispered. "The accident that cost you your uncle, you know I always carried that with me…told myself I'd do anything to pay my debt…"

Tommy's free hand reached the sensei's chest. "There is no debt, _yūjin_."

"Just listen. There are things I've kept from you, Tomisaburo. You have to understand…about Keone…"

Keiko, hearing that name for the first time in years, gasped. Jinx, standing behind her, felt the room's temperature change. Blind Master recognized the weight carried by the name; had to take a moment to collect himself. A nurse arrived with water, did what she could to calm him down.

Tommy stepped away, pulled the doctor aside. Asked if the old man was possibly speaking out of his head. The answer was noncommittal. The nurse, meanwhile, was dismissed from the room.

"Come over here, boy," Blind Master bellowed, best he could. Tommy obeyed.

The words were too obscene to be believed. He spoke of a sickening discovery at the compound one afternoon. Of a lie devised to protect what was left of the Arashikage.

"Keone…" the master breathed. " _He's_ the one…no rivals…had to tell you…so sorry…"

The machines began to speak louder than their patient. A lone doctor was soon joined by three others, in addition to a team of nurses. The family was pushed away from the bed.

"No!" cried Jinx, as Snake Eyes attempted to pull the hellcat into the corner of the room. "He needs to finish this! He can't just—"

Jinx found her body twirled around, face to face with Snakes. His index finger pressed against the rubber lips of his mask. The meaning was clear.

She grunted, then eased her body. Nodded an agreement. Stepping away, she watched as Snake Eyes joined Tommy and Keiko. She wanted to be there for them. Desired more than anything the comfort of family at this moment.

Blood demanded a higher obligation, however. And, against her better judgment, she'd have to answer it.

Lotus position on the floor, not even noticed in the bedlam, Jinx drew in a breath. In under a minute, she'd entered the proper breathing pattern.

Her mind connected to a memory from the previous weeks. The sensation in her subconscious, as an outsider crept his way inside. She cursed the violation at the time. Today, she was determined to retrace his steps.

Unbeknownst to her, another invader stood above her shoulders.

He could've slit her carotid, slipped away without a soul noticing. The thought barely occurred to him.

Storm Shadow stepped closer to the bed. Stepped past the remnants of the Arashikage. The old man with the doctors hovering over, he was the source. He was the heretic speaking the ninja's name.

Curiosity overtook anger, however. The disguised ninja placed his hand on the shoulder of a nurse; had a moment of clarity, preventing him from tossing her aside. He drew a breath, told himself he'd never met this man. To ignore this throbbing déjà vu…cast it away. Dismiss it as the enemy trick it had to be.

The thought inspired him to look around. What other Joes could be hiding?

His face connected with another. Skin became instantly cold.

The ninja abruptly turned towards the door. Muttering nonsense, he exited with only one soul noticing. Tommy's steps traced the ninja's. He searched the hallway, found nothing.

Told himself he must've saw something that wasn't there. That the Blind Master's words had evoked some foolish thoughts. Dredged up a fantasy of something that could not be.

Keone, his long dead twin, could not be here this day.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"ARE YOU SURE, Mrs. Cooper?" asked a mystified Detective Rawlings, standing on the front porch of the Coopers' residence. He'd been working this case for a few days now, coming up with one worthless lead after another. Still, he couldn't have anticipated her response this afternoon, when Rawlings arrived with his partner for a round of follow-ups.

"I was one of the detectives who spoke to you the night your boy disappeared. Do you remember that?" ( _Do you remember being so panicked and irrational the EMTs had to administer meds to calm you down?_ he wants to ask.) "I'm glad you've been able to find some peace, but—"

Diane Cooper's pleasant, yet stone, face remained. "I've already said my piece. I've asked you to drop this investigation and I won't be giving any more statements. If you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of—"

Rawlings' partner, Nobles, slid into the role the six-foot-seven former boxer so easily played. The Heavy. "We're talking about your _son_ , ma'am," Detective Nobles spoke, inserting his foot into the doorway. "I can't believe you'd ask us to just give up, as if you didn't even care."

Diane didn't acknowledge the foot. Just kept closing anyway. "Good day, detectives," she said as Nobles hopped out of the way.

Within eight seconds, she'd returned to the phone. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's nothing," spoke the Slavic accent on the other end. "I trust you stood firm?"

"I've told them to stop bothering me about the subject. Maybe they'll listen this time. And, Dr. Stevens, thank you so much for your help in this affair."

"Oh, thank _you_ , dear." She could feel his smile through the receiver. Gave her quite the warm feeling. "For having the good sense to pick up the phone and listen to my friendly advice."

Outside, a member of the Cobra Triad maintained his watch of the home. Gripped the steering wheel as he observed the detectives' unmarked car depart. Made a note to exploit Cobra's resources and learn what exactly the Brea Police Department had uncovered so far.

Not that he was optimistic.

He'd arrived in Orange County four hours earlier. Still wasn't certain where to begin his investigation. Arriving outside the Coopers' home, parking his rental in a neighborhood he knew so well…he hadn't prepared himself for the sentiments the environ would stir up.

"Bobby…" he whispered, his gaze returning to the faded Polaroid.

Tap at the window roused the doctor. For a moment, he questioned if the detectives had returned. Couldn't blame them, asking questions of a mystery figure hanging around a recent crime scene. Turning to his left, he realized his mistake. More of a soldier's stance than a cop's.

And the black Semiautomatic Carbine Uzi in his hands was unlikely to be standard police issue.

THE DOCTOR, escorted by four Iron Grenadiers, entered the private quarters of his former associate. The chains on his wrists were largely ceremonial.

"Ah, Destro," Mindbender spoke derisively. "I see the international arms trade has been good to you."

His chambers were as ultra-modern as could be imagined. In fact, there was a hint of something almost alien about the room, if not the entire complex. The weapons manufacturer never lacked for imagination, and a taste for the cold indifference of steel, but his current hideaway brought the quirk to new levels.

Destro, seated upon a literal throne of glistening metal, released a deep laugh. "Was there ever any doubt? Let's not mince words, Doctor—staying with Cobra was an utterly foolish decision on your part."

"An argument could be made for that. Am I to assume this is your second recruitment attempt?"

Destro removed himself from his throne, gestured for Mindbender to follow him to the next room. "I have reason to believe it will be my last. And not merely because I've found you at such a disadvantageous position."

He looked down at his former associate, noticed the chains, and ordered his guard to remove them. "Let's act under a pretense of civilization, gentlemen," Destro spoke with another chortle. He was delighting in the suspense; Mindbender knew the mogul that well. Just didn't know what Destro was holding as his trump card on this day.

Mindbender, still dressed in the civilian garments he'd adopted in Orange County, stood with Destro at the entrance of the locked mystery room. Stood for an interminable amount of time. In different circumstances, he'd have snapped at the metal-plated fool to just get on with it.

Destro turned to the doctor, gave a look to question if he was in fact ready to enter. Recognizing how irritated his companion was growing, Destro stepped forward and typed in the entrance code.

"I'm assuming you don't need a reintroduction to these old friends, Doctor?"

Standing before Mindbender was a recreation of his finest work. The earliest steps, at least. A collection of DNA vats, all full, surrounded by the bio-tech equipment necessary to perform the most advanced act of gene-splicing known to man.

"You've…how?" he could finally ask. "How have you recreated this?"

Destro placed a hand on his shoulder. "It was no simple act, Doctor. The _true_ question is whether you'd be willing to reenact your greatest act of scientific genius."

"Destro, you were there…you know as well as I do that this procedure, that the dream that inspired it…"

"Was not truly your own? I remember. I also know that the sovereigns so eager to dismiss your work weren't present during the creation process. That _they_ were not the ones who risked their lives, who poured blood and sweat into the experiment…were not the ones to look this creation in his eyes and witness the birth of a new breed of man."

The doctor considered the compliment, but found himself shaking his head in disagreement. "But without their inspiration…without the dream they sent…"

Destro gripped the doctor, pulled him close. "Mindbender, regardless of the stimulus, _you_ are the scientist who shepherded this project to life. And within you, I know the knowledge remains."

Mindbender wouldn't deny the truth. He could transcribe every step of the process from memory, if need be. Who else but the doctor could be worthy to ever complete such an experiment? A thought passing through his mind, some irritating gnat, was reminding him of why he traveled west this morning. Of how Destro had caught him so badly unaware. He dismissed the notion.

The doctor turned to the DNA vats, stepped closer to give his inspection. "This…this was my finest work."

Destro followed, confident in his hand. "So can I count on you again? Can I trust your intellect in the rebirth of the finest military mind of the century?"

"For the sake of _Serpentor_?" A twinkle appeared in his eye. "You have my undying loyalty."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"BLIND MASTER," she spoke, gazing into a wall of white. The sounds of the doctors and the machines were still there, but silenced to just above a whisper.

"If you're there, you need to say something. You can't just leave us like—"

The cane connected with her abdomen. She didn't have a chance to question just how it could exist, here in an evaporating corner of the Astral Plane.

"Girl, you can't even give a dying man his moment's peace?" asked the Blind Master, or what remained of his consciousness here.

Jinx turned to face her sensei. Still in denial, still determined to ring his neck. Not noticing the white of the room was blurring into a hot glow.

"Not when he tries to go out with an exit line that weak. Tell me, now! While there's still time—what were you trying to say? Why were you talking about—"

The cane _whacked_ her again. "'Still time?' Kimi, I knew you were stubborn but this is _crazy_. You have to go, girl. _Now._ "

"No!" she protested, stepping closer. "Not until I hear everything!"

The fuzzy white continued to expand, to consume the landscape. Blind Master gripped her shoulders, screamed out, "You have to wake up! If you stay here, you can't ever—"

The heat consumed her sensei before he finished his thought. Staring off into the blank, the formerly searing temperature now growing cold, she had no trouble guessing that final word.

 _March 9, 1969_

YOU CAN SEE THE LOGIC IN IT. Your leader has provided you so much. Given you a journey across the globe, offered you pleasures of both the physical and psychotropic, introduced an entirely new way of thinking.

You recall your previous life, think of the claustrophobic worldview, the delusional elevation of prudence and self-denial. You've come so far this past year.

But what have you done to prove your devotion, Keone? What validation have you offered the strange man? You journey into the world for him, see to business he can't personally attend to. Yet this barely elevates you above the status of errand boy.

He demands more. He deserves it.

You can't recall how the thought first wormed into your head. If he suggested it, or if you spontaneously conceived of the idea. Either way, he warned you. Cautioned against any rash moves, any actions you could never take back.

Very considerate of the man. Typical of his generosity. But there's an iron certainty within you, a steady voice confirming this as the proper path.

Your companion isn't with you. Is over a thousand miles away, actually, attending to matters he's deemed irrelevant to you. When you slink into the Arashikage Compound, you do so alone.

Two cousins greet you within seconds. Both are weary from a day's training. Hisanori is stunned to see you, offers a warm welcome. Daisuke is more reserved. Once the shock starts to wear off, that irreverent personality returns. Decides to poke fun of you for that mohair suit. Is stunned to learn you purchased it in America.

"You travel there with Tomisaburo?" Daisuke asks.

You ignore the question. Ask instead to speak to the Soft Master. You're granted an audience after thirty minutes pass, when he's finished his afternoon meditation.

"What is it you seek, Keone?" he asks, inviting you to join him as he practices his archery. The Soft Master receives his _hankyū_ bow from your cousin, Haruko. You can't believe how much she's grown since you left. As she exits, you lament the barren life she's experiencing behind the walls of this compound. Give thanks that you were so privileged to escape it.

"I've come as a representative," you answer. "As a spokesperson for a great man, one who can finally guide the Arashikage into the twentieth century."

The Soft Master's lips turn up, morph into that guileless smile. "You still sound like a boy. What leads you to believe we want such a thing?"

"This life here…the prayers, meditation, training…if we continue to isolate ourselves, what purpose does it serve?"

Soft Master takes careful aim, releases the string. The arrow drives into the straw target; yet another perfect shot from the master. "Those who were meant to reach us find their way."

"You mean like the blind man?" you snort. "The dog responsible for the Hard Master's death?"

"What you speak of was a horrible accident." The Soft Master lowers his bow. Tone grows more serious as he tells you, "It was a fishing mishap, Keone. My brother passed saving the life of a man we called friend. Someone who humbled himself, adapted to our lifestyle. A good man who brought us great joy."

"And the blind fool was _meant_ to find us? My uncle spent his entire life quarantining himself from humanity, perfecting the arts of our ancestors, only to drown—saving the life of some American?"

" _Yes,_ Keone. That was his fate. Resisting it, wishing so desperately for something else, is childishness."

This is one insult too many. "I'm no child, Soft Master. I promise you, I've seen far more than anyone here."

"And what you saw out there in this corrupted world, does it please you so much?" he asks, setting his _hankyū_ on the grass.

"There's _life_ out there," you try to tell him, realizing you're speaking too loudly, but unable to contain yourself. "Opportunities. And I know a man who needs people with our abilities. Who will reward our loyalty."

Your uncle's still looking at you, the mix of joy and irritation in his eyes from just a second earlier is mutating into something else. Soft Master's body language shifts. You tell yourself you're not seeing this, that he couldn't possibly be plotting such a move…regardless of what your gut's telling you. "I suspect you've met a charlatan, young Keone. And what he has to offer, we have no desire to possess."

"How is it you're more blind than the American?! Why can't you see the need? Why would you condemn another generation of Arashikage to—"

Worst suspicion, that sickening paranoia, is confirmed, as the Soft Master withdraws a thin _tantō_ from his vest. Makes a rapid movement towards you. Makes what would've been a lethal strike, had you not moved in time.

"Keone, I sense what this 'man' has done to you," Soft Master says as an apology, regrouping for his next strike.

Your reach exceeds your uncle's. You find his wrist is now in your hand. "You'd dare strike at _me_ , uncle? You, the one who always speaks of family? Of protecting our own?"

"I…I do what's necessary!" he says while struggling, tears pooling in his eyes. "I can see…what you've become, Keone. Recognize you as a cancer. I…must protect the Arashikage, even from—"

"Even from your own nephew?!" you shriek in disbelief, not realizing at first you've broken his wrist. The _tantō_ falls towards the grass. You swipe it from the air before it connects.

You see the Blind Master remains resolute. With his good hand, he's reaching for his next strike.

What you do next with the blade, the look in the Soft Master's disconsolate eyes, is a blur. As is your response to Haruko, who comes running breathlessly into the grass.

An hour later, you exit the compound. Your suit is ruined, your entire chest exposed, a landscape of cuts and bruises. Your face, your hands, covered in blood.

A decision is made, one you don't consciously recall. But the wickedness performed here this day must be cleansed. Must be erased with fire.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JOCELYN'S HOME SMELLED OF fresh-baked butter pecan cookies. The Romanian's briefcase rested on the kitchen linoleum, propped against his leather dress Oxfords.

"This strapping young gentleman's name is Bobby. He's visiting from the west coast. And, truthfully, he might be here for a while."

Jocelyn wiped off her hands with a dish towel before reaching forward for a greeting. "Hello, Bobby. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Hey, Granny," Bobby answered. He removed a cookie from the plate resting in the center of the table. "Sorry it's been so long since my last visit," he said after his initial bite. "Mom says I can spend Spring Break here with you, if that's okay."

"Did he just call me…?"

The Romanian's eyes twinkled. "Indeed he did. It's an inviting thought, isn't it? Poor Jocelyn, deprived the dream of grandchildren due to…circumstances beyond her control. Wouldn't you be proud of such a fine young man?"

"I…think that I would, yes," Jocelyn answered after only a brief silence.

The Romanian made his fingers into a tent, leaned closer. "And isn't the thought of spending time with the boy quite appealing? Aren't you just so eager to break out those scrapbooks and tell him about his father? To share some of your famous blueberry pancakes with the young man in the morning?"

"That does sound tempting. He's…such a nice boy."

"Oh, he's a prize," the Romanian answered, looking over to Bobby, now beginning work on his second cookie. "Yes, quite valuable. But if young Bobby turns out not to be the asset I believe him to be, you are prepared to do what needs to be done, aren't you?"

Jocelynblinked thrice before responding. "I'm…I'm not sure what you mean."

"Oh, I think that you do. I think you understand that, if a particular individual doesn't take a rather sizeable hint, Bobby turns from asset to liability. That he must be dealt with. Perhaps with a…special blend of your blueberry pancakes. You _do_ grasp what I'm saying to you, Jocelyn?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the simultaneous ring of the doorbell and the pull of the front door. Entering was a vision of beauty, albeit one dressed in the latest K-Mart fashions. She could barely see over the bags of groceries.

"Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Kristofer. Had to go to three different stores to find the right—" The lovely caught sight of Jocelyn's guests. Setting down the groceries, she coolly added, "I didn't realize you had company."

Jocelyn perked up, took the visitor by the arm and made introductions."Oh, Ana. I'd like for you to meet my grandson, Bobby." Jocelyn's friend had to restrain herself from giving a perceptible reaction. She caught a family resemblance immediately—just not the one Jocelyn intended. Leaning over the teenager, now on his fourth cookie, Jocelyn beamed. "My friend Dr. Stevens here just brought him over from the airport."

"Is that so? Well, very nice to meet you, Bobby."

"Hey, Granny's friend," he answered in a half-asleep cadence. "Sorry it's been so long since my last visit. Mom says that I can spend Spring Break here with Granny, if that's okay."

The Romanian clenched his fist in frustration under the table. He forced his lips to turn upward, reached over to good-naturedly rub Bobby's free hand. "Ah, the young man's a mite jetlagged. Might I inquire what brings you here, Miss…? Oh, I didn't catch your name, did I?"

She ignored the question, instead turning to Jocelyn to ask, "Would you mind if I have a chat with your friend, Mrs. Kristofer? Thanks."

The Romanian obeyed the request, carrying the briefcase with him. Safely out of the room, she barked, "What are you doing here?"

"Simplifying a few plot threads, dearest," Crystal Ball replied, as if he were explaining the most obvious concept in existence. "That greasy-faced weakling is integral for Cobra's future. I felt Mrs. Kristofer possessed the maternal capabilities necessary to keep him safe until the plot reached fruition."

The Baroness fought off the urge to slap him. "As a member in equal standing in the Triad, when was I to be notified of this?"

"Perhaps when you explained to me why you're still engaging with this woman? Why you disappear from the base for hours at a time? Why you now favor these department store rags over your leather?"

"I suspect, 'Dr. Stevens,' you do know the answer to that," she said with a knowing smirk. "And that you've been scheming some way to resolve this issue? To revive the woman you once knew?"

"Perceptive as ever," he offered as a reasonably believable compliment. "Other concerns have occupied my time. And, truthfully, I didn't foresee the effects of our previous therapy session. I would've preferred a more subtle method of undoing my mistake." He moved closer, reached for her hand. She surprised herself, taking it.

"One that involved your favorite composer, a bottle of Louis Roederer, Cristal 1967, and a night out at the finest ballroom in Paris. But, alas, if fate has forced my hand—"

She didn't see the nerve pinch coming; wasn't a skilled enough maneuver to knock her unconscious, but the Romanian was able to stun his fellow Triad member into a temporary paralysis. He shoved her into the adjacent bedroom, mentally rebuking himself for allowing the situation to deteriorate to this point.

So much drama, ever since he prepped her for that undercover mission. Removing that memory from her past, the icy fall night that warped her into her true self, made sense at the time. Perhaps she could've faked her rehabilitation for the sake of a few interviews, but eventually the authorities would see through her. But if the blackest portion of her soul had been excised, if she could no longer reach the fetid part of her that enabled those heinous acts to be committed…would this not enable the perfect performance?

As he dropped the briefcase to the floor, unlatched the top, he fought off the competing thought. The condemnation that he'd been showing off for her. That he'd taken pity on the wounded bird. Perhaps even developed something of a crush on the lass, told himself she'd appreciate the act. Offer the pour soul some relief. Who wouldn't want their darkest, most shameful act erased from memory?

She should've gone about her Cobra business even without the remembrance. That'd been his assumption, that the work of the organization was essentially muscle memory by this date. Why'd she have to be so stubborn?

"Such a mess…such a mess…"

The hypno-shield was removed from his briefcase. Leaning against the bed, she'd already regained some movement. "There are facts you must understand, my Baroness. As distasteful as this is, I fear it's become necessary," he told her, the shield spinning a charismatic portrait. "That woman you view as some mother figure? She's nothing to us. Just a plebian with a tangential connection to our organization. Her life here will remain anonymous...of no concern to you. Her home is a safe place for this child."

The Romanian's voice lowered, spoke with even more purpose. "And his life is as _meaningless_ as hers. If he proves to be an inconvenience, he will be dealt with. If Jocelyn for some reason cannot perform this function, then it falls to you."

"No…absolutely not. I…not possible…" she said as a whisper, unable to turn from the image.

" _Another_ thing. This newfound moral code you've developed? It's sickening," were the evil words to follow. "You seem to have erected quite the high opinion of yourself, 'Ana.' Would you care for me to remind you of what you really are?"

The Baroness fought an unbelievable fight. Managed to close her eyes, grit her teeth, and answer, "I know what I am. But if you think I'm going to hurt either of them—"

"Of course you will. Because you are the Baroness. The witch who stared down the Worms of Death. Who, according to legend, found the spores sent to annihilate all humanity 'beautiful.'"

The conspicuous sound of air escaped her lungs. "No…I would never…" she whispered, eyes now wide.

"You would. Because you're the same woman who turned your back on your family's beliefs. Who rejected the country they viewed as a haven from oppression." He stepped closer. "Even joined others to undermine it. You're the woman who willingly aligned yourself with a _snake_. Who didn't give a second thought to his command, his edict that you prove yourself. Verify the connections to your past life were dead."

She ordered her lids to close once again. They refused to obey. "Shut up. Don't you dare—"

He was nearly nose to nose with her now. "You're the one who traveled to that cemetery on a cold November evening. You were the one with a shovel in your hand, dearest."

Baroness, beats of her pulse shaking her entire body, found the temerity to scream. "No! I told you to shut up!"

Scream, and with tears rolling down her cheeks, to strike her harasser. A haphazard blow, far from her best, but enough to send him back a few inches. He responded by dropping the shield, freeing both hands to reach around her thin neck.

"You would… _dare_ …?" he grunted, the normally calm façade melted into a hideous expression of rage.

Her fists slapped against his back, but he'd gotten too good of a hold, too fast. She'd witnessed too many scenarios like this, participated in far too many on her own, to deny what was coming.

He was furious enough to do it. The wild hatred in his eyes revealed that much. And given his size, his leverage, she couldn't do a blessed thing to stop him.

So why did those hateful brown eyes suddenly roll to the back of his head? Why did he groan with such horrid force as he hit the floor?

Perhaps her friend Jocelyn, standing above his body, had the answer.

"You…what's happening?!"

"For one, I just saved your life, dearie," spoke "Jocelyn," in an accent that stunned her friend. "Additionally, I'd suggest you place your hands behind your head peacefully. We could avoid any more unnecessary violence that way."

CHAPTER TWENTY

YOUNG BOBBY, still lacking numerous life experiences, didn't know enough to describe the sensation as "hungover."

Standing beside him were Psyche-Out and Big Lob, fresh from the surveillance van parked nearby.

"Hello, sir. I'm Lieutenant Rich," Psyche-Out told the young man, electing to use his proper title. "I realize you've been through an incredible ordeal. I just want you to know that we're here to help, okay?"

Bobby's view of Jocelyn's kitchen hadn't quite stopped spinning yet. "I think…I think I just want to go to sleep now," he said, reaching for his temples.

Big Lob, standing over a foot above the young man, patted his shoulder. "I can take him to the van if you'd like, Psyche."

Psyche-Out, looking past him towards their fellow Joe, answered, "Yeah, go ahead."

"Hey, didn't you used to play pro ball?" asked Bobby as they entered the front lawn.

Behind them, a statuesque blonde was shepherding Crystal Ball into Jocelyn's living room. An athletic sock had been shoved into his mouth, strapped in with rubber bands.

"You realize you have a tendency towards overkill, don't you, Quarrel?" asked Psyche-Out.

Quarrel, on loan to the Joes from Her Majesty's S.A.F. crew, gave the Romanian a less than gentle shove in Psyche-Out's direction. "Maybe that's what your unit needed a touch of?" She took in Psyche-Out's uniform—chromium headset, flashy green shirt with a black and silver vest, plus detachable radar dishes hanging from his shoulders—and her pale cheeks dimpled. "Not that you Americans are known for subtlety."

In fewer than ten seconds, she'd returned from the bedroom, now dragging Baroness along as her guest. "Just make sure he doesn't cause any more trouble, yeah?" Quarrel said over her shoulder, exiting the front door.

The women walked down the front yard path, heading away from the van that now housed Bobby and Big Lob. On the curb was parked the Baroness' driver.

"So where's the real Jocelyn Kristofer?" asked Baroness, silently amazed at this Joe's ability to impersonate so credibly the woman she'd known as a close friend.

"Where she's been ever since we realized she was a potential Cobra target. The same place young Bobby is being sent. And that's all I'm going to be revealing to a snake."

The rebuke stung, in a way that surprised the Baroness.

"Now, I want you to speak to your man inside," she said, gesturing towards the nondescript sedan. "Tell him that the mission's a bust, and it's in his own best interests to surrender peacefully." Quarrel turned, looked Baroness in the eye. "Can I trust you to do this?"

Baroness looked away, snorted. "I suggest you look closer, blondie. That car's empty."

A brief turn of her head revealed the driver's location to Quarrel. He was standing over the neighbor's bushes, zipping up. She guessed the car didn't contain any empty soda bottles.

"Lucky day. My keen reconnaissance skills have located him," Quarrel said, pulling Baroness along. With her free hand, Quarrel unholstered her sidearm.

"Okay, blue boy. I see you're done with your business. What I need you to do now is to slowly raise those hands and turn around." Quarrel then coughed in Baroness' direction.

The Baroness sighed. "Ross, I think you should listen to her."

With his fly still open, the plainclothes blueshirt obeyed. Perhaps the embarrassment motivated him to surrender without incident. Within a minute, he was cuffed and seated in the back of the Joes' van. Ross The Incontinent Blueshirt, as Quarrel planned to identify him in her AAR, was joined by Quarrel, Psyche-Out, Crystal Ball, and his former boss. In the front seat, Big Lob was driving with a star struck Bobby as the passenger.

The Romanian, still gagged, had something to say. His bugged-out eyes and neck movements called for the Joes' attention. Psyche-Out, seated next to Quarrel, stood.

Quarrel's eyes rolled. "C'mon, head shrink. Don't tell me you're gonna fall for that."

Psyche-Out's shoulders shrugged."Man has something to say." He removed the gag.

"Ah, a thousand 'thank-you's," spoke an European intonation, after drawing a breath of air.

"If that sock belonged to Quarrel, no telling the last time it was washed. Might've been some violation of international humanitarian law, for all I know." Psyche-Out motioned for Ross to scoot over. Took the seat next to Crystal Ball. "You have something you wanted to tell us?"

"Only that I hope you understand the…the depths of my gratitude."

Quarrel's lip curled. "Oh, really?"

"No question," the Romanian responded, briefly closing his eyes for emphasis. "This organization I've found myself ensnared in…just a despicable pit of vipers. No pun intended. I've been wrestling with my guilt for weeks..."

"Again… _Oh, really?_ "

He scrutinized Quarrel's sapphire eyes. "You're skeptical. Understood. But, truly, I feel as if I've received a blessing."

Psyche-Out lifted a hand. "Let's hear him out, Q. I'm thinking he might've been scared straight by this ordeal."

"A _perfect_ choice of words. Yes, you can't begin to believe the depths of my regret."

"Mm-hmm. And you're overwhelmed with _so_ much remorse, you'd be willing to spill a secret or two about this nefarious operation?" Quarrel sneered.

"I've been considering just that, my dear. I'm a mere cog in this machine, mind you, yet I'm in possession of no shortage of valuable 'intel,' as I believe you military types refer to it." The Romanian released a faint titter before finishing his thought. "But, understand, certain conditions must be met."

"Okay," Psyche-Out responded. "Name one."

"First of all, and I pray this isn't too bold, but I must ask for these restraints to be removed."

"Not too bold, he says…" Quarrel shook her head in disgust.

Psyche-Outmotioned for Crystal Ball to move over so that his bonds could be examined. "Now, now, Q. Maybe you just fastened him in too tight. Wouldn't harm a thing, just loosening the restraints a bit."

The Baroness and Ross, previously irritated by the banter, both raised eyebrows. Could the Romanian possibly talk his way out of even this?

Quarrellaughed to herself. "Well, since he is promising to hand over all of this precious intel. Y'know, I hope I'm there for the interview. There's just something about that voice, right? Like you could listen to those melodious tones all the day…"

Psyche-Outeyed the restraints. Held back a smile before making his move. "Oops. Did I just _tighten_ those pesky things?"

Crystal Ball stomped his feet. "I don't think you're _listening_ to me, Joe. You intensely desire to _free_ me from these restraints. And you will _do so_ immediately!"

The Joe pointed to his ear. "Cochlear implants, bud. Same design that 'Jocelyn' over there's been wearing, ever since you sought her out. Whatever scheme you had planned for Cobra Commander's 'mother,' I hope you realize it's deader than disco."

Quarrel snickered. "Speak for yourself, Psyche. I'm never tossing out my ABBA LPs."

Psyche-Out lifted his pointer finger. "Quarrel, darling. ABBA was many things—chief among them, _brilliant_ —but they were certainly not disco."

"This is all so precious, I'm sure," spat Crystal Ball. "I'd be curious to know, however, if _every_ passenger in this van was in possession of these implants."

The realization hit Psyche-Out immediately. He reached for the sock, tried to shove it into the Romanian's maw before he could finish.

" _Boală! Psihoză! Deranjat! Execuţie!_ "

The Joe was too late. Behind him, Ross' pupils had grown small. His front row of teeth grinded against the bottom, releasing a chemical compound hidden inside a false molar. The agent entered Ross' bloodstream, had him amped up and howling with rage in under three seconds. Psyche-Out reached for his shoulders to put him down; lost his breath when Ross' arms emerged from behind his back.

"How?" Psyche-Out asked, just as Ross' double-fisted haymaker, each wrist hugged by a broken restraint, sent him into unconsciousness.

Quarrel leapt into action with a butterfly twist kick. Ross, eyes larger than silver dollars now, shrugged it off. The monster swatted her aside when she attempted her second maneuver.

Like a rhino, he charged towards the driver's seat, wrapped his arms around Big Lob's shoulders. Bobby's horrified shriek nearly drowned out the guttural scream Ross couldn't stop shouting.

"Foul play, man!" the Joe exclaimed, attempting to keep the van on a steady course. He was no match for the strength of the chemically-enhanced behemoth, however.

The van crossed the yellow line, made brutal contact with a late-model Ford pickup traveling in the opposing lane.

It was on its side, colliding with a Cadillac DeVille before skidding all of the way into the guardrails. The final collision sent Ross crashing out of the windshield, flopping down the hill into the Jersey wilds below. Later reports would have him DOA, a victim of a severe heart attack.

Big Lob would have no time to reflect on his denied vengeance. With a face blemished by steam and broken glass, the Joe turned to his right to check on their charge. Saw Bobby, his newly discovered biggest fan, pressed against the passenger door.

The boy wasn't moving.

PART IV: CAMERA READYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE GENERAL MARCHED INTO THE LOBBY. Had a thought about too many Joes occupying too many hospital beds recently.

Those casualties on the island were also weighing heavy. Three Renegades, one greenshirt. Even more hospitalized. At least one given the prognosis he'll never walk again. Hawk still hadn't allowed himself to feel those losses. The general maintained his composure as he was greeted by Quarrel, the only Joe involved with the Salem County imbroglio who didn't require hospitalization.

"Psyche-Out should be released by tomorrow," she stated after saluting. "But that daft Cobra git did a number on Big Lob. The doctors are afraid there's some severe tissue damage."

"Blast it. And the boy?"

"They took him into surgery. Haven't heard anything since then. And, given that we've yet to ID the kid, I haven't the faintest on who to contact."

"So if the doctors need permission from a next of kin for further procedures…"

Quarrel shook her head. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, General."

The general nodded his agreement. "We'll have to pray for the best. Maybe when he comes to, he can give us some answers."

"Yeah, here's hoping," Quarrel answered, not entirely hiding her skepticism. Her voice ticked up as she said, "One bit of actual good news? It seems their tar-haired leather girl might've actually gone straight after all."

"Every psyche exam she was given last year told us this. After Intel reported Cobra had a master hypnotist in their employ, though, we assumed she'd merely been placed under deep cover."

"I'm not telling you _not_ to be cautious. But she could've turned tail with the Romanian. Instead, she—"

"Have you spoken to her since the accident?" Hawk interrupted.

"Oh, yes," Quarrel said with a slight grin. "We…talked."

THE STINK HIT YOU FROM DOWN THE HALL. Numerous complaints had been registered, but Raptor's status as the organization's transcendentally skilled accountant enabled him some leeway in such matters.

A silver-morph gyrfalcon _skree_ -ed a bloodcurdling cry, forcing Hector Ramirez to take a step back. He collided against the Tele-Viper given the unenviable assignment of filming this debacle. Nearly caused him to drop the state-of-the-art camera.

Hector grinned anyway. Did his best to make nice with the beast. "And this is that lucky fella's lady?" Hector asked, as the gyrfalcon hovered only inches overhead. Perched on Raptor's arm was the male of the species, carrying a far more passive demeanor. Perhaps he'd been sated by the Guinea pig he consumed earlier. "She's nearly twice his size!"

"Sexual dimorphism, Hector," Raptor responded in a pedagogical tone.

Ramirez turned to camera. "Uh-oh! Can we say that on air?"

"It means the female of the species is typically larger than the male. You'll find the same is true with hawks and owls."

A subconscious thought forced the words "Kill Me" to scroll across the Tele-Viper's reflective visor. The surroundings, picked-apart rodent carcasses and droppings-stained antique furniture, were as foul as any he'd encountered during his years with the organization.

Ramirez, however, couldn't repress his smile. He opened his arms, asked the Viper to capture the ambiance of the entire room. "Y'know Mr. Raptor, I've got to say—this used to be my seven-year-old daughter's bedroom. I still remember the night my wife and I brought her home from the hospital, rested her in the crib that used to sit right over there." He gestured towards the wood plantation shutters. A spotted kestrel was on the floor, busy picking the meat from the bones of a bulldog rat. "This was like our little sanctuary from a world that's grown pretty crazy. But, you, Raptor…I think you've really spruced up the place."

"Very kind of you to say, Hector," responded Raptor as the male gyrfalcon took flight. "Oh, and please let your daughter know how sorry I am about my red-tailed hawk and that unfortunate incident with her kitty."

Ramirez's grin couldn't stop. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Raptor. Taught the scamp a lesson, I suspect." Ramirez turned to camera, shifted tones just as he always did when transitioning from fluff to the real news. "A moral we should all learn, really, as we prepare ourselves for Cobra's inevitable victory."

Hector's viewership had dwindled quite a bit since that run-in with the autograph hound outside of Tavern on the Green. He viewed his new audience, the gaggle of entertainment-deprived Cobra grunts addicted to their "C-TV" as more than fans, though. More like family.

"The small, the weak…this isn't their world. And many will be consumed." Ramirez then pitched up his voice, went for the "uplifting final thought" bit. "Luckily for them, Cobra is benevolent enough to—"

The door crashed open. "There you are! Didn't you hear the evacuation call?" shouted the Romanian, over the flutter of a thousand wings rustling.

"I assumed it was just a drill," answered the man in the bird suit. "Hector and I were just beginning to scratch the surface of the _true_ Raptor, the lost accountant who found his proper self in the transcendent art of—"

The Romanian slapped the camera to the floor. Mindbender missing, the Salem County op a bust, and Baroness back in Joe custody, in _that_ state, no less…he was not adjusting well to the pressures of leadership. "It's no drill you dolts! Leave— _now_! The Joes could be here any moment!"

ALPINE'S FAVORITE RECORDING ARTIST, William Joelson, had a home in this chi- chi neighborhood. He'd never admit he watched that episode of _Luxurious Lives & Diversions of the Stars_, that he even kept a VHS copy of it, but he recognized the block immediately. Some part of him was hoping this was all some mix-up. That he'd be able to discreetly take a peek at Mr. Joelson's home after completing this fruitless search. Maybe even run into the diminutive balladeer walking his dog around the curb.

"You really think the king snakes are hiding out here in the fancy suburbs, 'Zook?" Alpine asked his friend.

"Could be," Bazooka answered, after snapping his gum.

Alpine dropped the conversation for a moment, losing himself in the surroundings. Three stories, a dozen bedrooms, covered porches, two garages, a sunken fire pit, a blessed _tennis court_ …the yearly maintenance on that hedge maze likely cost more than his parents' mortgage back in Ohio.

"I know they sold off those extravagant secret bases," said Alpine, offering Bazooka a lift over the back fence. "It's just weird, y'know, the thought of them hanging out here with the canapés and spanakopita crowd."

"Guess so."

Alpine hopped over the wooden lattice fence protecting the garden, landed a foot away from his friend. "Don't let anyone tell you you're not a dazzling conversationalist, 'Zook."

The back yard looked ready for a photoshoot. Roses cascaded around a stone grotto. A marble bench and fountain cast a nearby shadow, surrounded by dahlias, hollyhocks, and hydrangeas. Beneath the Joes' feet, basil from the vegetable garden. It smelled like heaven. And money.

Bazooka pointed directly forward, gum disappearing down his windpipe. "Look!"

The figure carefully tending to the prized delphiniums was dressed like a grandmother from a Norman Rockwell piece. Floppy sunhat covering her face, a breezy floral pattern dress catching a hint of the wind. The metallic glint on her left hand, however, was no wedding ring.

"It's a B.A.T.!" Bazooka whispered, eyes wide.

"I know that, dummy!" Alpine shot back. "Let's just try to take it out quiet."

Also quiet was the B.A.T. garbed as a scarecrow, standing guard over the herb garden. Alpine didn't notice it coming to life, reaching for his neck from behind.

"Alpine!" his buddy exclaimed, nailing the android with three shots in the center of its faceplate.

Yards away, in a surveillance van parked by the corner, General Hawk kept up with the action via Alpine's open transceiver. A heartbeat after the shots began, he barked out orders.

"Repeater! Spirit! Go check that out! Shockwave—"

"On it, General!" shouted Shockwave, a member of the latest wave of recruits. Unlike the rest of the unit, Shockwave wasn't promoted from any branch of the armed forces. He came to the Joes fresh from the Detroit Police Department, eager to take on even more heavily armed foes. The recruiters were incredulous anyone would willingly take the cut in pay, but Shockwave had more than proven himself, surviving Beach Head's rookie abuse at Fort Dix with a smile on his ugly mug. Luckily for the team, that Cro-Magnon forehead and broken nose remained covered during missions, obscured by a cap and face mask.

"Open up immediately!" he screamed, pounding on the front door. "You have to the count of—"

As the door cracked, a sliver of a face appeared. The graying British resolve of Hector's longtime butler, Edwin Wadsworth. "What is the meaning of this? I demand—"

Shockwave used his body weight to force the rest of the door open. Edwin found himself on the floor. "We've got an opening. Move, people!"

Past the foyer of the mansion was a collection of blueshirts and Vipers, all preparing for evacuation. They collected themselves in a hurry, took up arms against the invading Joes—Shockwave, his fellow rookie Hardball, Quarrel, and General Hawk.

"Hard and fast, people!" shouted the general. Even the sight of television superstar Hector Ramirez, racing down the stairs with the Romanian, wasn't enough to throw Hawk off his game. He broke free of the pack, evaded fire while approaching the two men.

Crystal Ball, horrified to see his worse fear coming to life, could only stammer out profanities in a strange tongue, as the grim-faced Hawk approached. Fist connected with jaw. Went down on the carpeted steps like the lightweight the general guessed him to be.

"Ramirez!" Hawk shouted, taking the reporter by his shoulders. "What's the meaning of this?!"

No response. None outside of doe-eyed terror and utter confusion.

Hawk snorted through his nose, grabbed Ramirez by the arm. "Keep your head down, Ramirez! Can you understand that much?"

The reporter nodded. The general, against his better judgment, escorted Hector to their right, out of a side entrance. "So help me, Ramirez, if any of my men are injured in this…"

Yards back, Shockwave had kicked over the vintage mahogany end table in the foyer. Didn't provide the ideal cover, but it was keeping his fellow Joes alive. "Hardball!" he yelled to his rear. "I think a thorough 'bloop'ing is in order!"

Hardball didn't voice any agreement, merely rolled into the field of fire, nearly losing his trademark ballcap in the bargain. Weeks earlier, Hardball had graduated from the same torture class as Shockwave and Repeater. Gave up a shot at major league ball for the opportunity to join a true team. The same eyes that served him so well out on the diamond came to the Joes' rescue on this day, as he perfectly eyeballed the proper spot to fire his massive "bloop" gun.

"Everyone remembered to bring their masks along, right?" asked Hardball, as the gas charges detonated behind the Cobra agents. Smoke filled the hall for a solid minute, silencing any fire.

At one minute and one second, however, came the familiar ring of automatic fire. The Joes returned to defensive positions, did their best to eye these new opponents.

It was a Cobra class immune to potassium chlorate and organic dyes. It was a battalion of B.A.T.s.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?" asked Repeater, as the silver-morph gyrfalcon's talons ripped through his uniform.

"Stay calm," admonished Spirit, stepping cautiously towards the bird.

Repeater might've been new to this unit, but not the service. His twenty years in the Army had provided more than one lifetime's worth of stories. He'd stepped on a snake once out in the jungle, nearly lost his leg thanks to the poison. Always assumed that'd be his worst experience with a member of the animal kingdom.

" _You_ stay calm! You're not the one he's— _arrgh_!" The gyrfalcon's beak located a tender spot on the infantryman's neck. Ripped off a respectable amount of flesh. Repeater responded by dropping to his left, then swinging wildly with his service rifle. Landed a lucky hit, sent it to the ground.

An unearthly scream was heard from above.

"You _animal!_ " exclaimed a voice from the third floor. Spirit and Repeater looked northward, caught the preposterous sight of a grown man dressed in a bird costume.

"By my ancestors," Spirit whispered, hand lifted to block his eyes from the sun. Charitably, the stranger might be described as someone adopting the look of a comic book superhero. If this made him more or less insane than an adult choosing to dress as a bird of prey, the Joes couldn't say.

Repeater noticed the movement first. He didn't want to believe this nut would be crazy enough to leap from the window, but Repeater had learned years ago to trust those instincts. "Spirit, stay sharp!"

The stranger took to the air, using homemade wings to glide in the Joes' direction. His face was contorted into a pained expression of hate. Whatever words he was shouting their way likely wouldn't have been suitable for broadcast.

"I'll make sure you'll pay! You won't be able to—"

He didn't speak another syllable after taking a blast to his shoulder. Spirit, tender heart that he was, could've gone for a fatal shot, but chose not to. Ending the life of a clearly disturbed man would dishonor his entire bloodline.

QUARREL EVADED FIRE, flanked three of the android troopers while maneuvering towards the next room. The B.A.T.s continued to emerge from the back, pressuring the Joes into dispersing in various directions around the house.

She spotted a line of them, climbing in through the kitchen window like ants with a taste for spilled sugar. Using the doorway as cover, she engaged the latest round of bullet-sponges. "At least they're dumb…" she told herself, as two B.A.T.s inadvertently mowed down a fellow android who'd wandered into their path.

Quarrel aimed a grenade towards the window, yelled out a warning to the Joes stationed outside. While the explosion distracted the B.A.T.s, she dived to the right of the dishwasher. Only spotted one active android left in the kitchen; she refused to count the detached torso, still flailing like a turtle on its back, as a true threat.

She engaged the remaining B.A.T. Avoided three shots; cursed herself when she realized she'd maneuvered directly in the path of the gas stove.

"Hey, now!" she shouted, lifting her hands. "They did program you not to do anything _that_ stupid, didn't they?"

The android took aim, certainly implying that "they" had not. Quarrel barreled towards the B.A.T., used her judo training to shift its superior weight to the floor. Couldn't do anything about the round it got off in the midst of the struggle, though.

The bullet pierced the air, connected exactly where Quarrel didn't want it to. The gas ignited, generating an explosion that eliminated the wall behind the stove, and most of the kitchen. An incredible amount of luck enabled the blast to consume four android troopers, invading from the back patio and arriving just in time for the fireworks.

Quarrel would later be found beneath the tattered remains of the B.A.T. responsible for the mess. The android didn't provide enough shield to circumvent all injuries, but its metallic mass was responsible for saving the Joe's life. She never once considered sending it a thank you card.

"YOUR BIRD SHOULD BE FINE," spoke Spirit in his distinctive cadence. The gyrfalcon, still not prepared for flight, rested on his forearm. "He's a magnificent creature. I will consider it my duty towards nature to ensure his survival."

Raptor, shoulder bandaged, hands cuffed, eyed the Joe with suspicion. This was the man who shot him out of the sky moments earlier, now promising to take care of his prized bird. The butt of a rifle nudged his back.

"Say thank you to the man," barked Repeater, prodding Raptor towards the curb. The Joes' prisoner transport was due to arrive in five minutes.

Spirit shook his head. "His gratitude is not required. If our enemy's soul is not attune to altruism, force will not alter his ways."

"Uh…right," answered Repeater, stepping by the bird with caution.

A dozen yards away, Alpine and Bazooka were inspecting the hole in the mansion's wall. The smoke was only now beginning to clear. "Just think, Bazooka. If we hadn't been preoccupied with those robo-dorks in the garden, we could've been standing right here when—"

Bazooka's gum cracked. "You think too much. Makes ya paranoid."

Shockwave passed by at that moment, escorting Crystal Ball to the curb. "Dude's right. This one might've been messier—and louder—than we wanted, but look how it turned out?" He gave his prisoner a small lift off the ground. "We've even made some new friends!"

"Unhand me, you jackbooted flunky of the—"

Alpine pressed his index finger against the Romanian's lips. "Isn't he the one Quarrel warned us about? Said we oughtta bring some extra socks on this op, didn't she?"

Shockwave snickered, removed a grenade from his belt. It entered the hypnotist's mouth soon after. "I'm not personally worried about this feeb."

"See, Alpine?" Bazooka asked, inserting a new stick of fresh-mint. "Things are finally lookin' up!"

He'd barely finished that sentence when the shadow of the Cobra Transport Helicopter spilled over the ground, consuming the landscape.

 _June 5, 1973_

SOUTHERN AFRICA. A three-way civil war in an unrecognized nation. Perfect environment for the stranger and his bodyguard to do business. And, perhaps, make a new ally.

"I think you'll find I do good work," says the odd creature known as Zartan. He's handing Keone's employer a tin storage case the size of a photo album.

The stranger is making a rare excursion without his coat, this day. Still has much of his face covered with the hat and shades, but is allowing his baby blue skin to touch the sun. "I've been told you're not one to judge another's appearancce," he says.

If the stories were true, the face before him was very likely not Zartan's. Rumors of a mercenary, one with skin a hue closer to the stranger's, had been going around. The stranger was, naturally, curious enough to arrange a meeting.

He examines the texture of Zartan's skin; tells himself if anyone can spot prosthetic work, it's him. But if Zartan is coating himself in a lie, the stranger is hard-pressed to notice.

He unclasps the locks, examines his purchase. Resting within, a doughy representation of a Caucasian male's face. Skin the tone of Bobby Redford's. Lovely shade of pink. He thanks the odd man, tells him he does indeed do splendid work.

Zartan. Interesting to find him out here, off what passes for a road, in the midst of the blistering heat of the savannah. He questions if the merchant knows his name is "Tarzan" spelled sideways. He's seen those movies, too.

The stranger nods towards Keone, instructs him to provide this Zartan the rest of his payment. "A pleasure to do business, good sir," he says, that peculiar echo chasing each syllable.

Zartan mounts a motorbike, is gone within a second. Keone and his employer return to their jeep, continue down the path.

"We've reached a stage in our operations where I'll need to be making more personal connections. Please, take no offenssse," he says, examining the mask once again.

"I offer no judgment," Keone responds, not looking away from the makeshift road.

Distantly, he spots two figures of modest size. Getting closer, he recognizes them as teenage males, likely no older than seventeen. They've erected a barrier on the makeshift road; are guarding it with machine guns.

"Most likely members of the National Liberation Army," Keone's superior tells him. "Given their reputation, I suspect we won't be able to talk our way passst."

"They're children," Keone answers, just above a whisper.

The boy soldier on the left raises his arm, instructs Keone to stop. He obeys, allows the jeep to idle.

"What brings you here?" asks the soldier as he approaches. Keone's employer tersely informs the boy he has no business asking the question. The young man is momentarily stunned by the stranger's flesh; when he does react, the distress is evident in his voice.

"Out of the vehicle! Both of you!" shouts the boy as his companion jogs forward to join him.

"Asss I suspected. I fear there can only be one conclusion to this, Keone."

Keone eyes his superior, allows too much of his agitation to surface.

"Do you quessstion me?" the stranger asks, as both teenagers take up their arms. "Don't tell me you're having moral qualms about your duties _now_ , Keone."

Keone reaches into his breast pocket for his _hira;_ the blade is lodged into the boy's larynx. His eyes never stray from his employer during the action, not even as the boy falls to the dirt. The other soldier, the one with the gun aimed two inches from his superior's face screams in disbelief.

The barrel reaches his superior's forehead. He doesn't break a sweat, doesn't show any obvious loss of cool as he instructs Keone, "I think you've left a job half-finissshed…"

Keone contemplates allowing the boy his justice. A passing thought. A foolish one. Keone reaches forward, snatches the barrel away. The boy's trigger finger snaps as the weapon is seized from his hand. The butt of the rifle loosens three of his teeth.

Whatever it is Keone does next, the boy isn't aware of it.

Fifteen seconds later, Keone has his _katana_ blade drawn, is slicing the roadblock into splinters. He'll have to ask forgiveness later. Even a hint of insubordination could not be tolerated now; he realized that.

All ties to the past had been severed. He'd gone above and beyond to prove that. He knew his role, understood fully who he served.

Resisting this would be more than foolish.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"WHY LEAVE IN SUCH A HURRY? We threw this shindig in your honor!" asked Lift-Ticket, not allowing any nerves to enter his voice.

He was speaking via transceiver to the Cobra Transport Helicopter, the two-way monitors allowing him to see Cobra Commander had been joined by his bodyguard Storm Shadow and an AWOL Falcon. The sight of his friend twisted the Tomahawk pilot's guts in a knot. Would he have to be the one to take that shot?

The Commander, clad now in his regal, navy blue garb, had seen the chaos below. Assumed, correctly, that the Romanian had bungled things badly. He ordered Storm Shadow (still in the doghouse for waiting almost a day before answering the Commander's calls) to turn the Transport around. Falcon, predictably, made a comment about those serpents and the damage they always caused. Cobra Commander questioned just how long he'd tolerate this inanity. The joke had worn quite thin.

The Tomahawk emerged seemingly from nothingness. That redneck pilot had them caught dead to rights. The Commander would have to schedule a private session with his bodyguard; determine just what was going on with the lad.

"Lousy snakes; trying to provoke us into an air fight over the taxpayers," spoke Falcon, slamming his fist into an open palm.

"A sssymptom of their depraved minds, brother." He hadn't even considered the option, but of course Falcon was correct. The Joes would not fire here unless fired upon. Actually, even if fired upon, it's unlikely the fools would offer any real retaliation.

The Commander returned to the console's microphone, addressed the Joe with the tone he deserved. "No, Lift-Ticket. I think we'll find a more hospitable landing place elsewhere."

"Suit yourself, slick," returned the voice over the speakers. "But be warned we're gonna tail you, and at some point you won't have pretty manicured lawns underneath."

Under Cobra Commander's mask, a sickening grin. "Are you forgetting the cargo in my possesssion?"

Lift-Ticket had to draw a breath before answering. "Sadly, I am not. But I'll do what has to be done. Why not save us all some grief and land that bird?"

The Commander pondered this for a moment. "Very well. I think Mr. Rameriz's lawn—what remainsss of it—should provide a sufficient landing space."

Falcon opened his lips to protest; he was silenced instantly by his beloved "brother."

Following orders, Falcon and Storm Shadow departed the craft. The Commander was the last to leave, making a detour to the instrument panel. He removed a portion of the cover. Underneath was a keypad and red button. A button pressed very casually by the Commander. He was even whistling a tune while doing so.

"What's going on in there?" Hawk shouted over his megaphone.

The Commander sauntered out, placed his hands over his head. "Nothing, I asssure you."

Alpine and Bazooka patted down the trio. Removing the ninja's personal arsenal took a solid three minutes; the Joes called Spirit in to help.

Spirit approached his common adversary, didn't break eye contact while reaching for the small dagger he knew Storm Shadow kept pressed against his chest.

"I see you remain on the dark path, ninja," spoke Spirit in a tone indicating more disappointment than anger.

Storm Shadow sneered. "And you, Indian, cling to foolish values."

"Do I?" he asked, looking closer into those eyes. He saw something different there. Something he couldn't articulate. He'd have to meditate on this later.

Falcon, with great care, was chaperoned to the west by Hardball. This was his first encounter with the lieutenant, a fact he could scarcely believe. He hadn't been with the team for long, but he'd heard the stories. Understood just how much Falcon meant to the team; how badly the Joes wanted to do right by Duke's brother.

What Hardball didn't realize was the foolishness of pairing Falcon with the mystery piece of Eurotrash. The Joe's back was turned as Falcon eyed his neighbor.

Images began to flash. Memories of dreams. An atavistic sense of being wronged, of some unspeakable violation.

The Romanian, still muffled, adopted an innocent look. Tried to smile with his eyes.

Falcon kneed him south of his belt buckle. Didn't let up when the Romanian hit the grass, ripping the Joes' plastic restraints open and pounding mercilessly on his target.

Repeater and Shockwave swarmed, pulled Falcon off before too much damage could be done. The grenade, pin intact, rolled across the grass. Repeater palmed it while dragging Crystal Ball to the curb.

"This is an outrage! How dare you subject me to—"

"Zip it!" commanded Repeater, removing a tissue from his pocket. He literally had to wipe this punk's (bloody) nose. What a job.

General Hawk eyed the commotion. Caught the look on Falcon's face and couldn't repress that doleful headshake. After confirming his men had the situation in hand, he turned back to his personal guest. Motioning towards the copter, he said, "I'll be honest, Commander—didn't think you had that much dignity in you."

"Perhapsss you give me too much credit," Cobra Commander said confidently. "Did it occur to you that this was my best possible action?"

"Didn't trust your pilot's skills against ours? Maybe you should look into real airmen, not mystery ninjas from the Orient."

That gasping laugh entered the wind. "I'm thinking more of a trump card. One made of nitroglycerin."

Hawk stepped closer, glared. "What was that?"

The Commander refused to back down. "In a compartment under the cockpit. Enough explosives to turn half this neighborhood into a cinder. Triggered the moment we stepped off—I'd estimate you have twenty minutesss before detonation."

Hawk turned away immediately _._ Ordered the Joes to confirm the boast.

"Oh, pleassse verify," said the Commander as he witnessed the Joes race towards the Transport. "I'd hate for my reputation to be damaged…"

Shockwave was the first back. The disgust and anxiety in his eyes couldn't be masked. "He's right, General." Shockwave leaned closer, lowered his voice. "And the detonator is state of the art. No way we could beat it in the timeframe he's given us."

Hawk's teeth gritted as he turned back to the Commander. "For argument's sake," he spoke, hating himself with every syllable, "what are your demands?"

Cobra Commander had no hesitation. "The immediate release of myself and my compatriots; free passage through the skies. And, within the week, a transfer of a million dollars as an apology for thisss…inconvenience," he said, nodding towards the ruined mansion.

"Counteroffer: We drag you to the cockpit, let you feel the cold touch of a barrel against the back of your neck, and you disarm the explosives."

The Commander found this amusing. "Threatening death, General? As if the detonation of the explosive wouldn't have the same effect…while also ridding the world of my most hated of enemiesss? Think, man."

Would the king snake be willing to die with the Joes? Hawk maintained a suspicion the man's liver was more yellow than pink. But was it a hunch he could risk a civilian neighborhood on?

Cobra Commander sensed the apprehension. "A little something to sweeten the pot. The missing drive that could cause your leader so much trouble in a few days—what if you received it before the twenty minutesss are up?"

"Are you saying it's on that transport?"

"I'll show you personally…"

Hawk directed his enemy towards the copter. On the grass, a team of medics was providing oxygen to the home's owner. His condition was not improved by the world's most infamous terrorist passing by, offering a friendly hello.

"Ah, Mr. Ramirez! A pleasssure to see you again."

"Quiet!" ordered Hawk, nudging the Commander in the back.

The Joes kept watch over the copter; both Hardball and Shockwave discreetly took up positions by the exit doors.

Only a minute passed before Hawk appeared at the doors, his right hand gripping the Commander's arm. In his left, the stolen drive.

He pulled the Commander close. Through clenched teeth, he spoke slowly, "My offer—no negotiations: you and your bodyguard can leave. The Romanian, and the soldier you've twisted far out of shape—they all stay with us."

The Commander pouted. Felt that grip tighten. "Fine. I agree."

THE COBRA TRANSPORT HELICOPTER was back in the sky in under ten minutes. The explosives lining its interior were disarmed by the Commander, not long before he gave his bodyguard a silent examination.

"What? Does something displease you?" asked Storm Shadow.

The Commander didn't respond. Instead, he turned to the back of the copter. Took a seat and opened his portable computer. After a few clicks, he'd retrieved the online "B.A.T. Mobile Command System."

On the ground, Repeater and Spirit were escorting Crystal Ball towards the Joes' prisoner transport.

"Unfortunately, the fates were far from generous today, my friend," Spirit said, his voice signaling the frustration felt by many of the Joes.

Behind them, the arm of a severed B.A.T. torso stirred. Inches away in the grass was its Cobra-issued pistol.

"We've got this guy, right?" asked Repeater, lifting the Romanian an inch off the ground. "Word is, he'll be the one to set Lt. Falcon straight."

The B.A.T.'s sensors registered the heat signature of the assigned Cobra agent. It obeyed orders; opened fire. Spirit intuited a foul spirit in the area. Wasn't able to move their prisoner in time.

The bullet pierced Crystal Ball's lungs. First aid provided by the Joes proved ineffectual. He bled out on the Ramirez lawn in less than three minutes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"AND THE UNIDENTIFIED COBRA AGENT, the one we suspect turned Falcon…did you locate him?" asked Mainframe, the rest of the on-duty Joes clustered behind his computer chair.

"We believe we did," spoke the video image of General Hawk. The breath he took before finishing his statement was perceptible to only those who knew him best. "Also regret to inform you that he's the lone casualty of this encounter."

Every Joe felt that simultaneous gut-punch. This weirdo from Transylvania or whatever, he was supposed to be the key. The man responsible, based on Intel's speculation, on Falcon's aberrant behavior. The man who could make all of this right.

Before signing off, Hawk asked for an update on Jinx. Mainframe apologetically informed the general that there'd been no change in her condition. Ol' Snakes remained at bedside, though, and promised regular updates.

After Hawk's image disappeared from the screen, Mainframe pulled up that footage uncovered a few days earlier by Intel. Home video of a Romanian carnival attraction, one suspected by Interpol of selling his talents to assorted terrorist organizations.

"So, that's the snake we think turned Lt. Falcon," said Mainframe, anger rising. "And the little jerk dies on us before we can do a blasted thing about it."

"Huh! You're kiddin' me!" came a voice over his shoulders. Mainframe turned to see Steeler, only one day back at base, following that disastrous Camp Alpha assignment.

"You got something to say, Steeler?"

Steeler grunted. "I do. But, no offense, it'll have to be behind closed doors with the general."

COMMUNICATIONS SUITE. General Hawk, still jetlagged, still mulling over that odd conversation with Steeler, was examining the video monitors. Three images appeared side-by-side, split-screen views of Falcon, Raptor, and the Baroness. All in custody, right or wrong.

The sight of a fellow Joe in a prison cell turned Hawk's stomach. This new Cobra operative, the man with the laughable bird fetish, provided some distraction. The third prisoner wasn't a bad conversation starter, either.

"Maybe _she's_ the one with the hypnotic talents, convincing you to release her restraints like that."

"Weren't enough of us to perform CPR on all of the civilians who needed help." Standing next to Hawk, leaning against her crutch, was Quarrel. She'd recounted the events from Salem County at least five times, but didn't exhibit any weariness. "Crystal Ball escaped in the confusion, no surprise, but I guess that's irrelevant now."

The general released an involuntary groan. Just another failure from recent days. Any hopes of proving beyond a doubt that Falcon wasn't in his right mind, or undoing the damage caused to their brother, died with that European eccentric.

Hawk turned the conversation back to the more comfortable topic. "And she didn't hesitate to give up Cobra's hideout in the Hamptons."

"What it's worth, I'd say it's not an act. She could've done us serious dirt back in Salem County, but apparently some angel on her shoulder kept her honest."

"She fooled everyone last year," answered Hawk, eyeing the sleeping Baroness in her cell. Contemplating if someone with her past could ever truly change. "Passed every polygraph test and psych exam the boys in lab coats dreamed up. Not equivalent to your personal testimony, though."

Quarrelnodded. "Yeah, I'd trust actions over inkblot tests. Just my opinion, General, but I have a feeling it's possible."

"Question is, Quarrel, what would you be willing to bet on that gut instinct?" asked Hawk, as familiar footsteps entered the suite.

"General, I have a few thoughts on the subject," spoke Lady Jaye, deferential but not hiding her conviction. She'd spent the previous twenty-four hours fuming over the situation with Lt. Falcon. Had finally convinced herself she'd discovered some plan to alleviate that sense of helplessness.

"Let's hear them."

"Odds are, given her past, it's another con she's running. And, no offense," she said, turning to Quarrel, "but it's very likely she was willing to sacrifice those Cobra assets just to end up in this position."

Quarrel considered her response before offering it. "Not gonna say that's impossible, but..."

"Thing is," Jaye interrupted, "tempted as we might be to leave her in a cell, we can't forget how important she is. Her connection to this Colin Kristofer mess, the full scope of whatever they were plotting last year, we still don't have real answers on any of that."

Hawk mulled it over. Eventually came back with, "I have a feeling that when the orders come down, she's going to end up in a room with the same shrinks and profilers from before. And we're going to be getting the same answers."

Quarrel offered a reluctant agreement. "And the longer she stays here, the more likely she is to attract another Cobra extraction. Either for revenge or…"

"I propose we try something different," said Lady Jaye, perking up. "Let's take her out to a safehouse, keep it as quiet as possible. Give me a few days with her, out in a new environment, some place she can drop her defenses. See if I can get real answers from her."

The general stroked the dimple in his chin a few times before answering, "You'd likely only have a few days, if that. The Brass is going to be expecting something out of her soon, and a dozen agencies have already put in their requests."

"We'll just have to work fast, won't we?"

"You will," Hawk spoke confidently. As Jaye turned to leave, he added, "Take Flint with you. He spent time with 'Leigh' as well; I'd like his perspective on this, too."

Jaye didn't realize she'd made a face. The general's tone changed. "You don't have any issues with that, do you?"

"None whatsoever, sir."

"THERE'S NO WAY this isn't going to sound condescending…" Psyche-Out said with reluctance.

"Go ahead an' spit it out."

"Multiple degrees from Berkeley. Six years in the Deceptive Warfare Center. And a dozen or so deprogramming courses you don't have the clearance to hear about."

Low-Light fought the urge to make a crack about Psyche-Out's oh-so-impressive résumé. "And where'd it get you with the lieutenant?"

"Not one solitary inch. But you think you can do better?"

"I do. With help from our ol' bald buddy in the cloak."

The mental image wasn't hard for Psyche-Out to pull. His absence in the Hamptons had yet to be explained. "Mindbender. You really think he'd be willing to help us out?"

"Nope. But last year, when that Cobra songbird was singing and we scored those easy layups...well, there was something curious in those papers we recovered."

Low-Light pulled off the sheet. Revealed the freakish electronic monstrosity developed by Cobra months earlier. Psyche-Out wasn't a member at the time of the mission code-named "Nightmare Assault," but he'd studied all of the reports. The serpents had developed a means of invading the Joes' dreams. Had them too weary to perform in battle, the entire lot too paranoid to ever fall asleep again.

To see this horrid thing before him now, inside the Joes' headquarters, caused a momentary lack of speech.

"And you built this from those plans?" he finally asked, deigning to touch the thing.

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Low-Light. "I _re-_ built this, with help from Mainframe and Dial-Tone. We saved the remains of this device two years back; wasn't too much effort to rebuild it, once we recovered the original blueprints."

Psyche-Out bent down, clicked on the miniature flashlight attached to his keychain for a better look. "So, with this…thing, you can deprogram the lieutenant?"

"Didn't attend any fancy research universities. Wouldn't be prudent to be making any promises." The uneasy sound of Low-Light's titter entered his voice. "I'll merely state that I'm relatively optimistic."

PART V: [ARE MADE OF THIS]CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HIGH-PITCHED TRILL OF THE COBRA-LA DRONE WARRIORS was giving Low-Light a headache. The sniper was out of breath, sprinting through the crowd of crunchy bug-soldiers, trying to keep up with Duke and Falcon.

"Sniper for a reason…" he muttered to himself, in-between pained breaths.

The scenario was familiar; that final battle between the Joe team and the Cobra elites. The cowards hiding out in their ice dome, confident they could survive the end of the friggin' world scenario they'd just triggered. Their hubris was crashing down on them, as the earth split open and their precious dome collapsed.

Serpentor was in the midst of it, exchanging blows with Falcon. This much was historically accurate. Unlike the addition of Duke. That's pure fiction. The poor soldier was already wounded, already in the slow process of dying, as it turned out.

Yet, here he was, charging in to save his baby brother's life. Blocks a jab from Serpentor, sneaks in an uppercut when the serpent isn't expecting it. Knocks out teeth from his jaw _and_ that silly golden headdress.

"You will not defy us in our brightest moment of glory!" protested the chump, regaining his footing. "Cobra will achieve our ultimate victory. This…I com—"

Falcon, sporting a bloody lip, appeared from behind. Took a cheap, but justified, shot. Tossed Serpentor in Duke's gentle arms. Big brother didn't hesitate, lifting the Emperor Dork over his shoulders, hurling him into the growing chasm consuming the dome.

"Say hello to that gentleman with the pitchfork and hooves for me!" quipped Duke, laughing into the void.

What's funny is that the tremors stop there. Low-Light looked around, saw image after image of the drone soldiers just fade into nothing.

He shrugged it off. Approached the brothers; figured his best option would be to play along, offer both a congratulatory handshake. He found his path blocked by a battalion of Vipers. Shifting his way past the throngs, he finally caught up to the first row. Looked in horror at the sight above.

On the dais were the higher-ups of Cobra Command. In the center, Duke, clad in a familiar navy uniform. Cobra Commander's.

One difference, though. All of those Cobra emblems had been replaced by miniature American flags. Low-Light didn't experience a burst of patriotism.

"Falcon!" the sniper shouted to his teammate, standing behind his brother. "Don't give in to this!"

The brothers ignored him, went on with the ceremony. After reciting a grotesque pledge to some unspeakable Lovecraftian gods, Duke completed the ritual, donned the familiar hooded mask of the Commander.

Falcon stepped to his brother, offered a manly handshake. Both had tears in their eyes.

"This isn't what happened, Falcon! Can't you see that?"

Falcon, finally, turned to the crowd. "You need to stop making a pest of yourself, sniper." He hopped off the dais, approached Low-Light. Dark intent evident in his eyes. "Yeah…I think you need to learn when to keep your _mouth shut_."

"It's all a trick!" Low-Light shrieked. "Those snakes are behind all of this!"

Falcon took advantage, landed an easy punch against the sniper's chin. "We just _beat_ the snakes, Low-Light! You need to stop talking crazy."

"It's all a lie, Lieutenant," said Low-Light, blocking the follow-up. "They want you to believe your brother is the man behind that mask…but _look_ at it!"

"I'm warning you—"

"That's Cobra Commander!" Falcon responded with a vocal curse, then a fast jab to Low-Light's stomach. He stepped back, regained some air. "Duke isn't the man under the hood…it's the viper that's always been there!"

Falcon charged the sniper. "Liar! How dare you?!"

Low-Light gave in to his instinct, finally presented a defense. Connected two fists against Falcon's back before kicking him off. The rumble of combat boots announced the return of the Viper battalion, swarming on Low-Light like flies.

Joined by the hooded Duke, Falcon had a great laugh as the Vipers lifted Low-Light overhead. They marched his bruised body towards the re-opened chasm, tossed him into the darkness.

Low-Light screamed with uncharacteristic terror, plummeting those thousand feet. In a flash, he discovered his journey was over. He awoke under fluorescent lights. Patting his chest in a panic, feeling the diodes and wires, he took a full minute to convince himself he was truly alive.

Ripping off the instruments, he swung his body out of the bed. Spent a few seconds studying Lt. Falcon, asleep in the bed next to him.

"That coulda gone better," he said with a sigh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"DR. MINDBENDER," stammered the M.A.R.S. technical agent, "I've told you, you simply don't have the clearance—"

"I'm telling you, worm, that 'clearance' is an insignificant concept for one tasked with the future of this organization," the doctor responded. "And if you continue to defy a direct order, you'll discover how exactly my reputation in the Cobra torture pits was forged…"

The technical agent gave a frustrated sigh, returned to his computer and typed in a few prompts. Standing to leave, he said, "I'll give you five minutes. Best I can do, Doctor."

Mindbender didn't acknowledge the agent's departure. Wouldn't have been bothered if the man paid the ultimate penalty for breaking the rules. His only concern was locating the information he suspected Destro had already collected. Officially, none of the Cobra higher-ups would acknowledge their awareness of another's past. Destro, with his idiosyncratic sense of honor, likely wouldn't use the intel maliciously.

Not so, the Romanian. The Serpentor distraction was more than enough to occupy the doctor's mind for hours, but eventually thoughts returned to another pressing issue. It was only natural for Mindbender to assume the worst. Still didn't prepare him to have the most horrible news confirmed via green text on black background.

Color drained from his face as he frantically left the room, half-dizzy, half-sick, searching for a phone. The computer dossier, the cursed thing, was shockingly thorough. Listed the number of the hospital.

He dialed, went past two levels of receptionists before reaching the room.

"You…how dare you?" came the acidic voice that greeted him.

"You know why I'm calling. Please tell me there's some good news."

"It's been four years, Brian. You don't get to call here and act like nothing—"

"I offer no pretense. But I need to know about the boy."

"Stop talking like that! Stop acting like this…this _thing_ you turned into."

Mindbender resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. Had to settle for merely punching it before returning his stinging hand to the receiver. "Again I ask you—is his condition as dire as I've heard?"

"I can't…I can't even talk to you. I'm sorry, Brian, but it's too late."

"The doctor, then. Let me speak to him."

Twenty seconds passed. Mindbender demanded a passing Iron Grenadier fetch him some ice for his hand.

"This is Dr. Cohen. To whom am I speaking?"

"A family friend. Tell me, how is Bobby?"

"He's still in critical condition. The cranial damage is extensive, sir. I don't know if there's much we can do."

More words were spoken. Talk of grim probabilities. Cellular damage. Life support. Miracles. He could only tolerate so much.

"You. Give Diane the phone."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's an urgent matter. Do this, now!"

The tart voice returned. "Brian, why are you doing this to us?"

"Diane, listen to me. Whatever the outcome, do _not_ remove this boy from life support. Regardless of what those hacks tell you, regardless of how bleak the outlook, _do not murder this child._ "

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

INSIDE THE TEAM'S BREAK ROOM, Law was heating up a meal for his loyal mutt. Gung-Ho's shrimp and sausage gumbo was barely edible by human standards, but it appealed to the taste buds of the trusty K-9 soldier known as Order.

"That's a good dogg-o," Law said while stroking Order's thick coat. "I save fifty cents a can on dog food and the ol' Cajun's feelings don't have to be hurt."

While Order finished the meal, Law leaned back in a cheap folding chair. Turned on the television. He sighed when the very familiar image appeared onscreen.

" _Have you struggled with losing weight?"_ asked the electronic nuisance, which apparently owned this timeslot.

"Nope."

" _Quitting smoking?"_

"Never started."

" _Learning Spanish?"_

This caused a laugh. " _Realmente no, señor_."

" _Well, don't lose hope! The answer has arrived, thanks to the miracle technology of subliminal message cassettes!"_

"Broth-er!"

The host, a four-eyed nerd Law recognized from a failed game show last season, approached the nearby table. He opened his hand to "present" a collection of audio cassettes. _"Just insert one cassette into a portable player, pull on those headphones, and turn in for a relaxing evening. As you sleep, subconscious messages will mingle with the soothing music. Don't believe us?"_

"Uh…"

" _Don't take my word for it! Just listen to these personal testimonials!"_

Silent, Law absorbed the montage of faces. One underpaid aspiring actor after another, boasting of their changed lives—changed _minds_ —thanks to the magic of these cassettes.

"Man… _abofetearme la boca_ …" he groaned, knocking the chair over in his hurry to find General Hawk.

THE DOCTOR'S HAND REACHED FOR THE PHONE. His phone, the cordless model located in his private office.

He laughed at the thought. "Private." Mindbender knew the line was monitored. That if he did what he couldn't believe he was even contemplating, Destro would likely know within the hour.

Only question now was justifying the risk. He couldn't escape Destro on his own. But, would they believe his story? Allow him to do what must be done?

After all of these years, could he trust the Joes?

The open line hummed in the background. To his left, the protoplasm armature. Destro's agents had collected the DNA of dozens of history's greatest rulers from that other world. (A supply Mindbender had no small role in exhausting in his own reality.) The armature was undulating with a gooshy taupe mockery of life. The process to recreate his finest design was only hours from completion.

Or, it could serve another purpose entirely.

He returned the phone to its cradle. Decided to sleep on the decision, assuming any rest could come this evening.

Two hours later, a familiar voice entered his dream. Serpentor, thirty feet tall, berating him for his mawkishness, for being the worm that he is. Calling him a weakling, a milksop…a traitor.

"Did you not realize when you joined our order that all ties to your past were no more?" the giant bellows, swooping the doctor from the ground. "Did you not know that Serpentor demands total fidelity? You would consider depriving me, your most blessed son, of _life?_ "

His punishment is a multi-story drop to the ground. The impact of every bone breaking clatters through his body. When the doctor awakes, he'll declare it a fitting sentence for betrayal.

TWO STURDY GENTLEMEN IN THEIR MID-THIRTIES stepped out of the elevator. Orders had them wearing civilian clothing during this assignment. Bazooka traded his standard Steve Grogan jersey for John Hannah's instead. Alpine made sure his pal removed that famous brim-strap helmet, though.

"Yeah, it's guard duty," said Alpine, carrying their tray of coffees, "and it _is_ boring, but…Bazooka, that doesn't mean this isn't important."

"Sure. But hospital food? No thanks."

"Just be grateful you're not Mutt or Quick Kick. They've been stuck here on watch ever since the kid was checked in. And thank the heavens that doctor came back from California when he did. They might never have located Bobby's family otherwise."

A doctor on-staff at the hospital had been in Anaheim on a family vacation the week prior. Remembered Bobby's face from the local news reports, connected him immediately with the young John Doe admitted after that van accident. Bobby's mother was contacted, and after shaking off whatever cobwebs surrounded her in those early hours, had remained a steady presence by her son's side ever since. A rare bit of good luck for the Joes, lately.

Bazooka was the first to reach Bobby's room. Poked his head inside, then turned back to face his friend. "Hey, Alpine. Did General Hawk explain how we're supposed to be guarding an empty room?"

"Can't be right," Alpine answered, popping into the vacant room to check for himself. "I asked the desk nurse for his room number. 08-28; easy to remember. My mom's birthday."

"Guess we better go check again," Bazooka said with his typical languid cadence, the one that'd earned him a reputation for being a mite sluggish on the uptake. The scuttlebutt was, arguably, unfair. Ol' slow Bazooka already had a feeling something was wrong.

Downstairs at the nurse's station, the Joes approached the LPN on duty. "Ma'am, why'd you send us to an empty room?" asked Alpine, ready to again recite his mom's birthday if the lady resisted. "This is important business, and—"

"There you guys are. Why aren't you with Bobby and Diane?" interrupted Mutt, entering the station with Quick Kick.

Bazooka quietly condemned Quick Kick's Dodger's t-shirt, while granting Mutt's Mosi Tatupu jersey his blessing. "Got bad directions. Why'd you leave the post?"

"The doctors escorted the boy and his mom out of the room; said he needed x-rays."

"Our shift was almost up, so we called the desk," added Mutt. "Told them to tell _you—_ "

"To meet the Coopers at the x-ray room? So, Nurse, why didn't you relay the message? Why this goose chase?"

The nurse, nearly a foot shorter than the Joes, sank even lower in her seat. "It's because…I…"

No words were spoken, but every Joe could recognize the voice of someone just a bit too nervous. Alpine's knuckles slammed into the desk. "He's not getting x-rays, is he? Where's that boy?!"

Quick Kick nudged his partner's side. "Mutt, let's go check the parking lot. You guys stay here," he added over-his-shoulder to Alpine and Bazooka.

They reached the parking lot in just over a minute. Caught sight of a 1979 Dodge van skidding towards the exit. Mutt turned to Quick Kick. "Not suspicious at all, right?"

"Hurry! Maybe we can catch it."

The Joes raced towards their rented vehicle, a Ford Escort so non-descript the clerk probably hadn't noticed the thing had left the lot. "Okay, realistically, what are our options here?" asked Mutt, adjusting the passenger seat safety belt.

"Worst comes to worst, you'll probably have to shoot some tires out."

Mutt gestured towards his temples. "Think about that, Kung-Fu Fighting. We don't want to do anything to endanger that van, given who we think is inside. And if we're wrong anyway—"

"Then we just attacked an innocent civilian vehicle." Quick Kick groaned. "Nuts. But we can't just let them go." The Escort blew past the parking lot, ignoring the 10 MPH speed limit.

"Of course," replied Mutt, as they reached the exit. "We're going to have to keep following, radio for some back-up, and…hey!"

Quick Kickslammed his fists against the steering wheel. "You're darn right 'hey!' Where the heck did that van go?"

"I UNDERSTAND LOW-LIGHT'S FIRST ATTEMPT WAS A BUST," said Beach Head, crumpling a paper coffee cup in frustration.

"He'll keep trying," General Hawk said with authority. "He has to."

Scarlett took her place in the debriefing table's third seat. "Even if Falcon is deprogrammed, have you given any thoughts to what happens next?"

Beach Head shook his head with disgust. "Four Joes dead at Camp Alpha, all at his hands."

"I'm confident he won't be held criminally liable," Hawk answered, praying his instincts were right. "However, the investigation into this could take months."

"Then there's the issue of provin' he's truly been deprogrammed. That he won't snap back under Cobra's control one day."

Scarlett closed her eyes, held a breath. "Even worse, there's the burden Falcon's going to carry for the rest of his life. I can't begin to imagine what he's going to be living with…General, realistically, do you think Falcon's ever going to be able—"

"I've discussed this with Psyche-Out," Hawk responded, attempting to quell any more unproductive speculation. "The precedent for this is negligible. Unfortunately, we're in unknown territory here."

Beach Head opened his mouth to add another thought. The emergency broadcast signal drowned out whatever he was going to say. Soon, the dejected image of Alpine appeared on the screen. Reporting from the hospital, he offered the Joes yet another round of bad news.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PRIOR, Mindbender had delicately introduced Hannibal Barca's DNA extraction into the protoplasm armature. He was in the process of collecting samples, of testing the chemical reaction to this latest addition, when one of Destro's flunkies entered.

"I heard you the first time," the doctor told the Iron Grenadier, annoyed by his presence in the doorway. "And my response is the same—I'm _busy._ "

"But Commander Destro was adamant," the flunky countered, showing more spine. "He's not one to be kept waiting."

Mindbender used a Pasteur pipette to dribble one last agent into the stewing bath. Waited another thirty seconds for the non-response he'd been expecting. Content the process was going according to plan, he finally stood. "Fine. We'll get this over with."

The Iron Grenadier didn't direct him towards Destro's chambers. Instead, they took a detour into a section of the base Mindbender had yet to visit. Three floors below his lab, Mindbender was ushered into the middle room in the Section C-8 hallway.

"I'm going to assume you have a good reason—" he blustered upon entry. The thought was left incomplete, his jaw aiming for the polished floor. The doctor had entered a makeshift hospital room. In the midst of the nurses and doctors were two familiar faces.

"Before you depart into hysterics," spoke the voice behind Mindbender, "please understand that he's receiving the best of care imaginable."

The doctor didn't turn to face Destro. Eyes closed with fury, he spoke with clenched teeth, "You have no right. No right to—"

"I have _every_ right, Mindbender. To protect my interests, to defend the dignity of my subordinates, whom you seem to abuse at will…yes, I reserve the privilege to ensure you stay focused on your assigned task." Destro breezed past Mindbender, stepping closer to Bobby's hospital bed. "Even if the measures taken might be perceived as distasteful."

"This is all your fault, Brian," the woman seated next to the bed spat with anger, tears forming. She stood, rushed towards Mindbender. "You understand this? I blame _you_!"

Destro made a "tut-tut" sound with his tongue before gesturing towards his men. "What did I say earlier about hysterics? Guards, make certain she doesn't interrupt again."

"I wouldn't have thought you this merciless, Destro," said Mindbender, observing with disgust Diane's removal. "When did you learn—?"

"About the dreaded Dr. Mindbender's prosaic past as an orthodontist? The medical experiment that twisted his mind beyond repair? It's an open secret amongst our former organization, Doctor. And, truth to tell, one I've rarely viewed as relevant." The civility in Destro's tone began to diminish. "Yet, when I discovered your unauthorized access of our files, and monitored the call logs…I felt compelled to act. Ah, why the sour expression?" He gestured for his men to escort the doctor to the boy's bed.

He allowed Mindbender a moment to take in Bobby's face. To reflect on the wages of sin.

Destro took a careful step towards the doctor. Dared to place a hand on his shoulder. "You should be happy, Doctor. A family reunited. And, assuming you behave, an opportunity for you to personally oversee the treatment of your boy. Would Cobra Commander ever exhibit such compassion?"

Mindbender couldn't feel the presence on his shoulder. Only registered the soft texture of the young man's diaphanous skin. He clenched Bobby's hand tighter, made a silent vow.

And, only a moment later, left these chambers and returned to his work.

LADY JAYE HAD LEFT THE CABIN FOR A GROCERY RUN. Left in the mood she was typically in, following another pointless round with their guest. Flint was left behind, stomaching the stench of _eintopf_ , some nasty European stew the Baroness was adamant about preparing.

They weren't keeping her in cuffs. Psyche-Out advised against it, and as exasperating as the woman could be, the Joes saw no evidence she truly wanted to escape anyway.

What she did want, however, was beyond inscrutable.

Flint entered the kitchen with his coffee mug. Adopting the friendly-yet-serious tone he'd mastered in recent days, he asked, "You want me to warm up that stew?"

The Baroness, wearing jeans and button-up flannel, withheld her sneer. "It's fine. I take it you're going this round alone?"

"You don't have to view every interaction as conflict, Baroness," he replied, taking the seat opposite her. "Or should I call you 'Leigh'?"

She dropped her spoon into the bowl. "If you so desire, 'Mr. Dugard.' Let's not pretend your side is above deception."

" _Touché._ It's a shame what this conflict has done to both of us. Not easy, adopting new roles. New faces. Not knowing for sure just who's staring back in the mirror, which lies you'll have to keep straight today. Can really play games on you. Isn't that right…Anastasia?"

Flint recognized the look. The practiced countenance of someone withholding a severe reaction; most likely, a negative one. The moment lingered.

"I've been wondering how long you've kept that one in your pocket, Flint."

"Then you also know that we've looked into your connection to Jocelyn Kristofer. Kept the Cisarovna family's floors spotless, did she?"

"She's a good woman. And she deserves better than to be used as a pawn…for either side of this nonsense," Baroness said, her voice exposing a sense of regret. A sincere reaction, nonetheless. One Flint wouldn't hesitate to exploit.

"Colin Kristofer. That was her son. And he was more than a passing acquaintance, wasn't he?" Flint leaned closer. "I want you to explain to me how that snake is wearing his face right now."

Baroness locked eyes with her host. Let him wait it out for a moment before responding, "I'm not obligated to provide you any answers."

"But you want to, don't you?" Flint answered, channeling sentiments he knew to be true. "Some part of you is sick of this life, I can tell. When you turned state's evidence last year, that wasn't a scam, was it? Some part of you really wanted to escape the serpents. Wanted a life outside of this lunacy."

"You've been eager to believe that, haven't you?"

"Maybe. And, just as possible, I'm a chump for buying it." He couldn't help thinking of Lady Jaye, of numerous "disagreements" during recent months. "Could be, Cobra had a new agent on their payroll. And us dumb grunts, we weren't aware of his capabilities. Didn't know his talent for…coaxing certain performances out of people."

"Ridiculous."

Flint recognized the tone of someone hiding more than she knows. Spotted that subtle shift in body language. "What'd he do to you? How'd he convince you to turn yourself in? To tell a story so believable every profiler and psychoanalyst with a government pension bought it?"

"This has grown tiresome, Flint."

"Has it?" Flint stood. "I thought we were getting somewhere good. I thought we were circling in on that little quirk in your makeup the Romanian creep exploited. That tiny doubt, that nagging voice…that buried memory that needed to be nudged." He stepped closer, placed his hands on her chair. "Maybe to the fore, maybe back into the darkness, but either way, he sure knew how to play you."

She refused to look his way. Kept her eyes straight on the opposing wall. "That's _enough_ , Flint."

Flint leaned closer. Directly into her ear, he teased, "Did he do too good of a job? Is that why you can't figure out who you're supposed to be now?"

"Stop this!"

Flint smirked. Took a step back, motioned as if he were only obeying her commands. Then, she caught him moving towards the door. "I think there's only one way to find out. And that's going to the source."

"What?"

The Joe opened the door and welcomed their guest. Every hair on her body stood erect, every sense told her this could not be. He walked in like he owned the place.

"Hello, dearest," spoke the Romanian. "I trust you've been a good girl in my absence?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

POLYESTER ITCH FROM THE MONKEY SUIT had Low-Light in a bad mood.

Not that it wasn't an honor to be asked to stand as Falcon's best man. One more opportunity for Low-Light to pay his debts to Duke, to show respects to everyone's favorite first sergeant. Just hard to believe Falcon would ask him of all people. Hadn't he made much closer friends with the Rawhide crew? Didn't he have any buddies, here in his hometown?

Low-Light examined the church, every pew packed with Cobra officers. Copperhead was offering Major Bludd a stick of gum. The shock forced him to take a step back, reevaluate his surroundings.

"Ah, makes sense," the sniper whispered, the chimes of the wedding march drowning out his monologue. He'd entered this holy place through the refurbished dream device. Boasted earlier about his ability to subvert the contraption, to enter Falcon's dreams and erase that Eurotrash's conditioning.

Now was his chance to prove it.

The bride made her stroll down the aisle, accompanied by a Viper regiment. The full veil covered a portion of her beauty, perhaps, but nothing could distract from that uniquely feminine gait, the shimmering black waterfall of her hair, flowing over her right shoulder. A Mollucan python slithered its way through her bouquet.

Falcon sucked in a breath, turned to his best man. "Tell me I ain't the luckiest sonuvagun living, Low-Light."

He leaned close to Falcon's ear. "You sure you want to go through with this, though? Positive there ain't something amiss?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just don't want you to fall for something that comes too easy. Too caught up in what feels right, not realizing that it's nothing but a…dream." The sniper patted his breast pocket, reassured himself he knew how to play this round.

He'd been too pushy the last time. Yelling at the lieutenant, warning him of the dangers of not seeing the truth. That might work on a timid mouse like Tripwire, but this was one arrogant soldier Low-Light was dealing with here. He couldn't have his mind made up for him.

"She have any troubles flying her family in, though?" Low-Light asked, as the bride loomed closer.

"What's that mean?"

Low-Light moved even closer. "Her aunt and uncle. Folks we met in New York. I don't spot 'em anywhere."

Falcon was thrown off for a second. Was going to question what Low-Light was talking about, when the minister's stage cough ordered them quiet.

The bride reached the dais. Her hands slipped into Falcon's. Low-Light stayed quiet during the minister's delivery, even that part about "speak now or forever hold your peace." He'd hoped their talk would trigger some feelings within the lieutenant. Force him to realize he didn't want any part of whatever was behind that veil. No such luck, it seemed.

After the usual spiel, delivered with just a hint of a sibilant _hsss_ , Low-Light was asked to present the ring. Innocent as possible, he handed over the felt box. Before walking away, however, he clasped Falcon's arm. Whispered a joke in his ear about not having to learn how to pronounce "Arashikage" now—not unless Kimi was one of those "liberated types."

"Something the matter, dear?" asked the bride, pulling Falcon closer.

An awkward moment later, he came to, removed the ring, and began repeating after the reverend. The ring was slipped on her finger. Orders were given to kiss that bride. Falcon moved in for the kill, finally peeling back that veil.

Pythona offered a smile, embracing Falcon with talon fingers and forked tongue. She closed her slit eyes, greeted her groom's syrupy tongue with her own. Falcon pulled himself away, spoke more with his eyes than his mouth as he beheld his bride with horror.

"What…who?"

She reached for his tux, inadvertently piercing holes through his lapels. "It's your darling bride, Falcon. Who else were you expecting?"

Low-Light attempted to step between them. "So you finally picked up those hints I was dropping, Lieutenant?"

Pythona responded by having her talons grow extra inches, then swiping violently at Low-Light's face. "You need to butt out of this!"

The sniper chuckled to himself, so proud of the patience he'd exhibited earlier. "Guess I'm just a buttinsky, sister."

"Eeeigh!" she shrieked, taking her left hand into her right. Blood was dripping into the carpet. Low-Light showed no mercy. Concentrated harder; made certain that ring grew even more thorns. That the tips piercing Pythona's skin were forming new tips, sharper ones that would enter her bloodstream. Just keep cutting from the inside.

As the congregation descended into panic, Falcon grabbed Low-Light. "What's going on here?!"

The sniper answered honestly. "You're starting to see these freaks for what they are, Lieutenant. This is a dream, and if we don't defeat Cobra here, you might never escape these bellycrawlers!"

"Get them!" screamed the Crimson Twins, in unison, from the back row. The assortment of snakes sprang from the pews, all hungry for blood. Low-Light mentally commanded the floors to become lava, a trick he pulled from a childhood game.

"Remember 'Don't Touch the Floor,' Lieutenant?" he asked. He expected Falcon to laugh in agreement. Instead, Falcon was clutching the sides of his head, fighting against the migraine of a lifetime.

"What is this…these are my friends…can't let them…" he said with his jaws grinding, collapsing to the floor.

Low-Light bent over, tried to speak in a soothing voice. "It's all right, Lieutenant. You might feel some pain in the short run, but trust me, I—"

Falcon's fist snapped against the sniper's chin. "You're not helping! I'm sick of you coming here!"

Low-Light restrained himself. The lieutenant had a point. These were _his_ dreams. Low-Light was the intruder here. And if he chose not to take the sniper's advice, if he didn't care one whit about how this oddball trained himself to fight against the nightmares, then Low-Light had no shot in this fight.

Zartan reached the dais first. Followed by Firefly and Major Bludd. Low-Light kept them back a few inches with the ol' one-two, but was down on the carpet in less than a minute. Scrap-Iron joined the dogpile, followed by a dozen Vipers, consuming Low-Light in a mass of fists and teeth.

"Step aside, vermin," spoke the voice of Pythona. Cobra's mass subsided, obeyed their queen. The sniper rolled over, through the haze caught an image of the beautiful beast approaching. Her ring finger was missing. That made him smile, at least.

Those other fingers, though, were growing even longer talons. Acid seeped out of the nails, devouring the carpet. Feet away, Falcon, cradling his face against his knees.

"Not real…not happening…not to me…" he muttered.

"Pay no attention to the cripple," Pythona said with an icy intonation, lifting Low-Light by that itchy tux. "You'll be reunited soon enough."

Her nails reached for Low-Light's eyes. Merciful, perhaps, ensuring he wouldn't have to witness the rest of this slaughter.

CHAPTER THIRTY

BACK ALLEY BEHIND A CHINESE RESTAURANT. Pungent street smells—urine-splashed dumpsters, old cabbage, decaying rats—take her right back. Kimi's thirteenth birthday. Only one the Blind Master ever acknowledged.

She hadn't thought of it for years. The gift of an Arashikage relic, a _tantō_ blade passed from one generation to the next. Blind Master gave her quite the speech, laying on the importance of the blade. Another masterpiece from the Onihashi legacy. Today, just one piece in her arsenal.

Kimi examined the _tantō_ , watched as the alley liquefied, reformed as that Irish boathouse. She didn't make the connection, then. Why stabbing the monster in white with that particular blade should've held such significance.

And, at this moment, couldn't quite grasp why the point of view was shifting. Why she saw the incident through that monster's eyes.

"Jinx…" came the call.

She ignored it. Thought she was hearing things.

Too caught up in the latest reality shift. Life on a mountain. Bizarrely, she knew it to be the Hkakabo Razi. How? Why were men in gaudy polyester suits hosting parties and backroom deals here? No one dressed for the weather. Weather she's proud to be beating, even though she's from southern California and despises the snow.

What happened to that sudden burst of civic pride? Why recoil at the thought of being a proud American?

The surroundings became expressionistic nonsense. She heard a voice call her name again. The name she'd pompously chosen for herself, the one she's now stuck with. Around her now, the home of her family.

Not the two-story out in Fremont. The place her father called home, before he rebelled, chose a different life. One that took him half a world away.

She'd never visited before. But the Blind Master came to her dreams, not so long ago. Brought along an image, a sensation. A taunt, really. Pacific breeze on her tongue. Noontime sun rippling off the rivulet.

Weeks back, the urge to visit, to reconnect with that part of herself, was instantly buried. Was she wrong? Why resist such beauty? Why did she believe it'd been burned away?

Burn? Why think of that word?

First crackle of the blaze surfaced in the distance. She rushed to the danger, saw the landscape eaten by fire. Fought off some dark urge in her skull, saying this is just. More than just, a thing to be admired.

"Jinx!"

She couldn't resist the call now. Kimi ran from the fire, ran towards that voice. The call of the man she knew she could no longer deny.

The fire was reborn as timber, a small country church out in the woods. The congregants all serpents, terrorists she's devoted her life to fighting. Near the pulpit, she eyed the man calling her name. He's a shell of a man, really. On his knees, crying out in frustration.

The snake congregation stood proud, as a freak Jinx recalled from the madness in the Himalayas sliced acidic claws into her teammate's flesh. Low-Light's scream of agony was the loudest sound she'd ever heard him make. Jinx cursed herself for being too late.

Looking down, Jinx realized she was dressed for battle. Three _shuriken_ were released without a thought. The freak, Pythona, dodged two of the stars. The third removed a portion of her ponytail.

"So, come to interrupt our big day?" Pythona teased, now standing above Falcon's broken form. Jinx noticed then their garb. Nearly spat with anger. Made a crack about virginal white clashing against Asparagus colored skin.

Somehow, the _tantō_ was in her hand. No memory of reaching for it. No real thought put into flinging it in the freak's direction. It connected with one of those slit eyes.

The freak screamed. Didn't stop until Jinx had finished the work. One voice reminded her this was a dream; feel free to release those dark urges. Another stated the ninja was merely giving into her base instincts. Exposing her true self. She told both to be quiet.

"Falcon, can you hear me?" Jinx asked, on her knees, arms wrapped around her man.

He kept whispering, "Not real…not real…"

Jinx held him closer, assured him that _she_ was real. "Only thing that matters. You an' me, you mope."

Her hands on his face, she watched as the tremors stopped. Falcon's eyes opened again, grew less glassy, began to resemble the real thing.

"Jinx…?"

Lips met for a kiss. Another shattering of reality. In Utah, the lieutenant's body lurched from the bed, as if it'd been repelled. Low-Light, still fighting off the shakes, had just entered with a fresh cup of coffee. It spilled across his boots, got crushed as the sniper raced to greet his teammate.

In California, Tommy and Snake Eyes were in for a more severe surprise.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FLINT EXPECTED SOME KIND OF REACTION. Truth to tell, he wanted a radical response. Anything to shake Baroness out of her pose of indifference.

Did the job too well, though. Just the sight of the Romanian was enough to drive the woman into a panic. To have her shouting foreign obscenities as she lifted her bowl, hurled it at the ghost's face.

Flint put his arms around her, tried to talk her down. Didn't notice she still had a fork clutched in her hand. Didn't notice until she stabbed him in the fleshy portion between his thumb and pointer finger, that is.

The panicked action was enough to break his grip. Enable her to run to the left, reach the kitchen window. The Romanian attempted to reach her, but just missed the tip of her heel as he lunged over the sink.

Baroness had been wandering the woods for nearly an hour now. Lady Jaye was still processing this info.

"Yup. An idea so bad, it could only be conceived by _two_ blockheads," she said, flashlight passing over the demonic night eyes of a perplexed raccoon.

"Cut us some slack, Jaye. We had to try something drastic," Flint said in defense, standing to her left.

"So drastic you had to keep it a secret from your teammate?"

"Was afraid you'd object to it, Lady Jaye," came the voice to her right. Chuckles, no longer incognito.

"And I wonder why! By the way, even if you nailed the dialect, I don't see how you got the specific voice right."

Chuckles rested his Maglite against his hip. Used his free hand for emphasis, not that Jaye was truly invested in his answer. "Those tapes Law told us about? Mainframe isolated the audio, pulled out the reprobate's vocal track." The Rawhide shivered. "Vincent Price has nothing on that ghoul."

Flint was a few inches behind. Squatting, flashlight trained on the dirt, he lifted a finger. "Hold on; think I've picked up the trail again."

Jaye turned back, murmured her agreement. "Definitely looks like it. Any idea what's in this direction?"

SHE'D GOTTEN THE CALL twenty minutes earlier, confirming Falcon was out of the woods. Any specific details, regarding what the lieutenant had done while under Cobra's influence, and how The Brass wanted the Joes to proceed, were listed as Confidential. Jinx, still high on her victory, still savoring that kiss from her sweetheart, didn't fully appreciate the ambiguity in Dial-Tone's message.

Standing above her hospital bed were Tommy, Keiko, and Snake-Eyes. (Still in his rubber mask. She knew it was impossible, but she could've sworn she caught a grin beaming under that molded rubber.)

Tommy handed her a paper cup of water. "You didn't have any run-ins with Shirley MacLaine while in Psychic Dreamworld, did you?"

"Dreams, the Astral Plane, Alcheringa, the Binghi spirit land…who's to say where one ends and the other begins?" Jinx asked, imitating Mr. Nimoy, host of their favorite show. One of the few bonding moments she shared with Tommy during her early years with the family were Wednesday nights, glued to the set.

"Riiight…"

"We're just glad you're okay, honey," said Keiko, reaching in for her fifth hug.

Tommy's expression took a turn. "We don't know that yet, Keiko. The doctors say Kimi might need to stay for a few more days. You were practically in a coma, girl."

Jinx handed back the cup, then stretched, best she could. "Honestly, way my body aches, I believe it. Don't feel like I'm in a fog, though. Mentally, I'm sharp as a tack. Ready to take on any of those nerds on _Jeopardy._ "

Snake-Eyes offered an "okay" sign. Keiko giggled, then touched Jinx's leg. "Good to know, honey."

"Seriously, I feel like things are finally making sense. That I've gotten enough clues to piece together the answers." She hesitated. "To finally make all of this right."

"What do you mean?" asked Tommy, taking the seat closest to the bed.

"Uncle Tommy, I know you don't want to hear this. But the Blind Master wasn't lying. Not this time."

Tommy waved his hand, didn't hide the irritation. "We're not discussing this. You need to rest, not indulge that old man's bull—"

He was interrupted by Snake Eyes, pressing on his shoulder. Tommy looked to his friend, then his cousin. He grudgingly nodded, gave her permission to continue.

"I'm sorry, Tommy," said Jinx, searching for the words to follow. "But I know the truth now. There was no rival clan, no war against the Arashikage." She reached out to touch hands with her cousin. "Tommy, it was Keone," she said with steely eyes. "It's _still_ Keone. He's still out there…and I'm doing anything I can to finally stop him."

"HOLD IT, Baroness. I didn't come to fight."

The trail led to an abandoned village shop, a good eighteen miles from the cabin. Old Man McAllister's place was once the main store for the community. A place to stock up on needed supplies for the winter, to fraternize with the local farmers or argue politics. Now, it housed mostly squirrels, and the occasional drunken teenage couple looking for a little privacy.

"I'm certain," the Baroness answered, flashlight blinding her. Lady Jaye motioned for her to come closer, arms raised.

Flint and Chuckles had been convinced to stay behind. Not a hard argument to make, given how badly they'd screwed up earlier. Jaye wasn't entirely certain she could pull this off, could actually talk this hateful (and hated) woman down, but it was her job to make the impossible look easy, after all.

"I realize you had quite a scare earlier. Way I see it, a hardcase like yourself wouldn't have a reaction like that over nothing." Jaye patted down her opponent, confirmed the snake hadn't forged a weapon out of tree bark or the like.

"So they told you—? Flint, how is his hand?"

"He'll be fine," Jaye answered, pretending she heard no sincerity in the Baroness' question. "And, if circumstances permit, that incident doesn't have to count against you."

Baroness felt the bracelets grip her wrists. "These lies grow increasingly insulting, Joe."

Lady Jaye escorted her prisoner to the store's front porch. Invited her to have a seat. "Listen, we need you. Doubt that's a big shock. So, certain things can be forgiven." Jaye swallowed more than a little pride before continuing. "What we have to know is if we can trust you in the future. If you're willing to live a quiet life somewhere far away from all of this, or if we'll have a repeat of that incident in Wisconsin every time we do you a favor."

Baroness looked away. "That wasn't…this is impossible to explain. You wouldn't understand."

"Who would, Ana?"

"I don't want you using that name," she answered, still refusing to face Jaye.

"Why wouldn't I? Seems to me, it suits you better than 'Baroness.'"

Her prisoner had no immediate response. Jaye began to wonder if this was actually working. If appealing to some portion of the Baroness' humanity, however that might be defined, could crack the woman. Jaye still didn't believe a word she'd been saying, all of this talk about "Ana" and this serpent's "true self," but if it got the desired results…

"You think you've discovered this soft side of me," Baroness finally said, looking back in Jaye's direction, moonlight revealing the callous face Jaye knew so well. So much for optimism. "All because of my time with Jocelyn. Who didn't even turn out to be…" She had to turn away again. "You Joes. I should've known you couldn't leave her out of this."

"Leave her as an open target for Cobra? No, Ana, we couldn't do that."

The Baroness collected herself. The body language shifted, grew less tense. "Is she safe?"

"You mean, are we certain your friends won't be slithering in her path?" Jaye was prepared to spew fire, let "Ana" know just how deeply she resented the snakes for what they'd done to Mrs. Kristofer. Instead, Jaye held in a breath. Channeled her sweet Aunt Harriet. "We're doing what we can."

"Could I possibly…could I see her?" the prisoner shyly asked.

"Y'know what, Ana? That might be arranged."

 _December 17, 1976_

WHAT DID KEONE CALL IT? The "Phoenix Sleep?" Something like that.

It's delightful, really, the techniques these humans have developed here in this fallen world. Your loyal Keone, slowing all of his bodily processes down to less than a crawl. Healing his wounds by meditating, like some lesser form of mammal.

He requested you bury him in the snow, up here in the mountains. Said it would aid in the preservation, act as a natural form of cryogenics. A logic to that, true. But you've seen the wounds. Somehow, your trusted guardian allowed that blind fool to damage several of his internal organs.

Critical wounds. Wounds that portend an unhappy fate for your companion.

You lean over his body, pull down the mask. A vial is removed from your pouch; inside are countless lepidopterans. A phalanx of moth allies, a species these hairless apes will never discover in their realm, to aid your friend.

It's been so long since you've relied on the old technology. So long since you've given home more than a moment's thought.

The winged specs of mercy flit free of the vial, follow due course and travel into Keone's nostrils. They'll do their job there, nurturing the tissues, repairing the broken cells.

It's a three-hour trek back to the road. A nagging voice reminds you of how long it's been since you engaged in such manual labor. You tell yourself you don't mind. Keone has his moments, but he's been exceedingly loyal. When he recognized the barnacles that needed to be scraped off, the sacrifices he had to make to prove his devotion, Keone acted accordingly.

Acted far beyond what his commander could've asked, truthfully. Did Keone need to travel to America, to hunt down the remaining bloodline?

No, it was overkill. But a joyous thing to behold, nonetheless.

The pistons in this primitive internal combustion engine are coughing up filthy murder. You exit the truck, express some of the colloquial profanities. You've journeyed nearly three miles on foot before you catch the distant headlights.

You pat your face, make certain you remembered that movie star mask.

A father and his ten-year-old son greet you in the pickup truck. They ask your name, and you realize you've yet to choose an American name for yourself.

You tell a lie. Tell proud papa William that you share the appellation his adorable little boy has adopted. "Billy," you say with a smile, confident the mask is conforming to your lips.

This seems to amuse the senior William.

Three Williams in a truck together, riding the roads, making small talk over the radio news broadcasts.

"You heard about them Saudis? Claim they're doing us a favor. That we owe 'em for keepin' gas prices so low? _Pfft._ "

Yes, you're well aware of global petroleum issues, of how this modern world relies so heavily on the energy derived from old bones.

And you're taking notes.

Twenty minutes and the Billy Crew has inched closer to civilization. William's declared he's hungry; suggests a steak at a truck stop. Billy sees golden arches ahead and demands fast food.

How many of these gaudy gold and brown buildings have you passed by in the preceding years? Never stepped inside one, never had the reason. The décor is nauseatingly plastic. You catch a glimpse of a packed tray passing by, make a mental note the food seems just as artificial as the tables and chairs.

The smell, however, nearly knocks you over. So rich, so indescribably enticing. It's the scent of salt, potatoes, and tallow—you could pick them all apart separately, but you've never experienced this combination all at once.

The food arrives in under five minutes. Quite a feat for this species—sautéed mollusks from your clan's most skilled chef require nearly an hour of preparation.

Billy is prodded by his father to be a good host. He offers you one of his "frenchied fries." The salt, the aroma, are addictive.

You look around, witness this sea of humanity around you. The mutually beneficial exchange of currency and goods. The freshly waxed floor and the yellow caution sign. The mix of smiles and bland, bored expressions, as one family after another approaches the counter and exits with a brown, grease-stained bag.

Such an intriguing society. So much more complex than you initially assumed. This system they've created, the trivial yet momentous feats they've accomplished, have to be seen to be believed.

Some part of you is appalled. The other…

PART VI: NOT WHAT TEACHER SAID TO DOCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SALT LAKE'S VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL had never treated an esteemed member of the G. I. Joe team before. Not that any member of the staff was aware of the latest patient's background. Patient 7643-XQ was listed with a Classified name and Top Secret diagnosis. The only doctor granted permission to offer more than rudimentary care was First Lieutenant Kenneth D. Rich.

His alternate identity as Psyche-Out, the Joe team's psychological warfare expert, was also unknown to the staff.

"Finally contrived some way to get you in here for a talk, huh, Lieutenant?" asked Psyche-Out, closing the door to their private meeting room.

"I probably should've taken you up on your offers sooner, Psyche," answered Falcon, keeping his eyes on the Styrofoam coffee cup. "Maybe being too stubborn for my own good got me into this mess."

Psyche-Out took the seat next to Falcon. Placed a hand on his knee. "No victim blaming here, Lieutenant. You have to understand that you are in no way responsible for the actions you committed while under Cobra's sway."

"Well, speaking of that, is there some way I could have confirmation of what did or did not happen?" Falcon squeezed the cup harder. "I have these flashes…they're almost like dreams, but…"

"All honesty, Lieutenant, I don't think it'd be prudent at this stage of your recovery to divulge that info."

Falcon finally faced his visitor. " _That's_ not gonna make me feel better. Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

"I've discussed this with our superiors, and consulted with several of my peers—without divulging any specific information, of course." Psyche-Out gave special thought to these next words. As they left his mouth, he recognized just how hollow they sounded. "Everyone agrees that you need a slow transition into your old life, a chance to acclimate yourself to reality before facing some, ah, difficult truths, let's say."

"Every word you just said cranked my anxieties up to eleven, doc."

Psyche-Out could only nod. After a beat, he cleared his throat and continued. "It's not my goal to upset you at all, Falcon. Please understand that. If you like, we can continue this at a later time."

Falcon considered his offer. After a moment's thought, he asked Psyche-Out to leave.

A WEEK LATER, Falcon was dropping in a load of laundry, finishing up a round of "work therapy." He preferred it to the countless inkblot and word association tests he'd endured. All required, he'd been told, to ensure Cobra's influence had truly been erased.

Falcon didn't blame The Brass for being nervous. It was the waiting that was getting to him, though. Waiting to hear word on when he could return to the team. Word on what exactly he'd done while the snakes were whispering in his ear.

He was kicking an empty laundry basket out of boredom, making a game of it, when the lights disappeared. The power outage didn't raise any immediate red flags—merely proof the lieutenant was getting rusty.

Powerful hands gripped him from behind. "Hey! What are you—" he attempted to bark. The sleeper hold had him in dreamland before he could finish the threat.

The unique rumble of the Joes' Triple "T" Tank awoke the lieutenant. Strapped to the back, still half-asleep, he had a bit of a tantrum, discerning the situation.

"What _is_ this?!"

"At ease, disease," spoke a familiar voice.

Falcon's eyes became as wide as milk saucers. "Sarge! What are you doing here?"

"Offering you some _real_ therapy, meatsack," Sgt. Slaughter responded, still refusing to face the lieutenant. "The only kind that matters."

"I'VE BEEN KEEPING AN EYE on Destro for nearly a year now," spoke the Sarge, over the blade slap of the Joes' Heavy Lift Assault copter, "following his parting with the fang gang."

Destro. One snake Falcon barely had a history with. Word was, he'd abandoned the organization not long after the fiasco up north. Whatever he'd been up to, the steel-plated slime had been keeping it on the QT.

Falcon studied the Sarge's form; arm propped against the open door, posture as solid as steel. More interested in surveying the terrain below than facing his fellow soldier. "First I've heard of this."

"I report only to General Hawk. And I have an open invitation to bring on any member of the unit, should I require backup."

"Why the heck would you choose me? I'm sure the word's out on the squirrels Cobra let loose in my brain."

"I have my reasons," the Sarge spoke bluntly. He seemed to mull over his next sentence for a second or two before continuing. "And, full disclosure, you're not exactly included in that 'any' list mentioned earlier. Not in your current state. But I'll deal with those consequences, soldier."

"Then, why—?"

The Sarge, finally, turned away from the door. Even through those opaque shades, Falcon was sure the man was looking him square in the eye. "I need you to prove something to me. Prove the hours I put into you weren't a waste. And, I'm not crazy, thinking you have something you need to prove to yourself, am I?"

Falcon approached his one-time mentor, the man who saved his bacon when even his own brother was ready to boot him from the team. He thought of offering his gratitude, only to be reminded of the stigma attached to those two words within the unit. "I wouldn't let you down, Sarge. Not on a mission." Falcon stood before the Sarge, offered a salute. "Just tell me what you need from me."

The old drill sergeant's expression didn't change. "I want you…to pay the price, disease!" he shouted while twisting his body, delivering an expert kick to Falcon's back. The lieutenant was momentarily speechless as he fell out of the copter.

THE SARGE ALWAYS _PLANNED_ ON USING the Joes' experimental JUMP jetpack to fly Falcon to safety. Second thoughts were now creeping in.

The brash pretty boy was the one who pulled the trigger on Red Dog and Taurus. Plugged those motherless beasts _in the back_. Before that, he used his own hands to squeeze the life out of Mercer. That ex-Viper was more mountain than man, and even if he'd never show it, the owner of a tender heart. The brute didn't have to turn his back on Cobra; he _chose_ to.

"Ah, Sarge?"

For all the good it did him. The thought disgusted the Sarge, but it was likely true. Had Mercer never defected, he'd most likely still be alive today.

Sgt. Slaughter, hand on hips, kept watch below. Watched as Falcon grew tinier and tinier.

"Sergeant…sir?"

It'd be a fitting punishment. The argument could be made.

 _But_ …but if this ambulatory clown member could be saved—redeemed in some way, wouldn't it be the Sarge's responsibility to pull it off?

"Don't you think you oughta be doin' something, right about now?"

That was the point of this stunt. To snap that babyface out of his fog. Force him to realize this is real, that actions have consequences, and he'd better work twice as hard if he didn't want a personal beating from the Sarge every day for the rest of his miserable life.

Lift-Ticket, still peering back from the cockpit with that dumb panic-stricken look on his mug, spoke up this time. "Sergeant, I _really_ think it's past time you—"

"Unclench, pal. I'm taking care of this," Sgt. Slaughter responded, strapping on the JUMP.

Amazing piece of equipment, really. Enabling the Joes to experience the joys of flight, to soar into battle like some superhero. Too bad the units turned out to be so darned unreliable, following more than an hour in the field.

The Sarge wasn't able to enjoy the sensation of defying gravity, of wind in his face and bugs in his teeth. His mind wasn't entirely made up, whether or not saving this mutt was a good idea.

"What was _that_ about?!" asked Falcon, his voice several octaves higher than the Sarge had ever heard it, after he was taken into the Sarge's arms.

"It's therapy. The Sarge's kind." Sgt. Slaughter adjusted his speed, began a rather graceful journey north, back towards the Tomahawk. "Now, you ready to hear the truth those chickenhearted college boys in that hospital couldn't tell ya?"

 _Here? Now?_ Falcon sneered at Slaughter's nerve. But, after remembering who he was dealing with, he reconsidered. Of course the Sarge would choose this moment to talk.

"Yes, Sarge. I need to know this."

"Mercer. Red Dog. Taurus. And Charles Joseph Allen, of Snapping Shoals, Mississippi. No codename assigned, still in greenshirt status." The sergeant's attempt at a deadpan delivery only accentuated his sorrow.

"What…what about them?" Falcon asked with dread.

"They're resting underground right now, you worm. And it's all your fault."

Time stopped. The roar of the JUMP engine, the scream of the wind, dissipated. For the next few seconds, the only sound audible to Falcon's ears were the slow, pummeling thumps of his heart.

"That's not true. This…this is some game you're—"

"I look like someone who runs games?!" the infuriated Sergeant asked, pulling Falcon to face him, noses touching. "You said you wanted the truth, slime, and that's what I'm giving you." He shook his head with disgust. "Should've known. Should've known you'd punk out on me."

Falcon caught his breath. Asked the question he had to ask. "Where…tell me, how did this happen?"

"They really wiped your mind that clean?" the Sarge answered with skepticism. "You don't remember Camp Alpha? That bloodbath of yours? All the nasty things you did in order to free your precious Commander?"

Falcon looked away, tried to pretend Slaughter was less than an inch from his face. "Don't say that. He's not my…Camp Alpha. My God, I remember. It was raining, I was freezing out there. The whole island, crawling with snakes..."

"They _weren't_ snakes!" a furious Sarge responded, pulling Falcon so close he inadvertently head-butted the lieutenant. "Those were good men! Your fellow Joes! And now, thanks to you, four of 'em aren't breathing anymore."

Eyes closed, head pounding, Falcon could barely whisper his answer. "So, Prisoner Omega…he was…Oh, God." His skin grew colder than ice. "That explains everything. You're not running some con on me, are you? I really, I can't believe I—"

"Acceptance is the first step of recovery. Now, question is—what's Falcon, the turncoat rat, gonna do about it?"

Falcon forgot himself. Responded to the insult with his gut. "Don't you call me that." He took a moment to calm down, digest the crap sandwich he'd just been fed. "Sarge, I'm sorry for your loss. I truly am. But I'm not going to let you blame me for—"

"Why shouldn't I? That was your trigger finger on the murder weapon. Your _bare hands_ around Mercer's neck!"

The Sarge, blood in his eyes, didn't realize what he'd done until it was too late.

Falcon felt his stomach drop again. Watched as that landscape rushed up to greet him. He couldn't withhold the scream.

Slaughter muttered a foul word, redirected his mass downward to correct his mistake. Within ten seconds, he again had his hand on Falcon's waistband.

"So this is how you get your payback?" Falcon demanded, eyes still locked on the rocks below. "Not on the snakes, but on the patsy they selected?"

"I can walk and chew gum, filth. Question is, assuming I do have that benevolent nature, how are you going to forgive _yourself_?"

The Sarge lifted Falcon's body, one-handed. Tossed him four feet in the sky, forced the lieutenant to face him again. Falcon allowed his flash of anger to fade, to see this through the Sarge's eyes. "I don't know if I can. You probably should just kill me. That what you want to hear?"

"Yeah, I could end your misery right now, chump," answered Slaughter, no hint of irony. "Send you on one final trip to the earth. Relieve you of all that nasty self-loathing."

"You're not joking, are you?"

"Way I see it, you're no good to yourself or the team, if you can't let go of this."

Falcon couldn't help himself. "Like _you_ can?"

"Don't you worry about me, slick. Got my own ways to cope. And your merciful old sergeant can give you the only kind of therapy a soldier truly needs." The Sarge's tone shifted. Didn't become more sympathetic, not by any means. But it did sound less like a carburetor bouncing around a Maytag's rinse cycle. Sounded as if he didn't outright desire the lieutenant's liver on a dinner plate, now. "I wasn't kidding before. You wanna drop one final time or not?"

It would be a mercy. A horrible kind, but perhaps the only mercy the Rawhide could ever accept.

Falcon sucked in some air. "Not gonna lie—a part of me does. But, no…no. I need to face this, Sarge. Make amends."

The sergeant mulled this over, then slurred an affirmative grunt. "Good to hear. You can change in the chopper. We have work to do, maggot…assuming I can stand to look at your face."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

RICHARDS MEMORIAL PARK. The sun refused to retreat, even as the clock rolled past six. Chase L. Sims, Jr. was removing a sweat-stained shirt, taking the final steps of his daily jog around the track. Young Chase had been rejected by an Army recruiter six months earlier. Too many marks on that rap sheet, too many stupid decisions as a youth.

Another organization had use of his talents, however.

Chase braced himself against a tree. Wiped his brow with the shirt. Took a heavy breath and wished for a cool drink. The wish, seemingly like magic, was granted.

"Look like you've exhausted yourself," said an unfamiliar voice. Chase looked up, saw the bottle of water was being held by a well-built man, perhaps a few years his senior. "Here."

Chase studied the bottle for a second before accepting it. "Was on my feet all day at work," he offered as an explanation, removing the cap. After swallowing half of its contents, he handed the bottle back to the good Samaritan.

"Crazy they actually sell water in bottles now."

The stranger only smiled, offered Chase the rest of the bottle. "Healthier than that syrupy goop The Cos is pushin' on TV. Where you work, pal?"

Chase considered his answer before finishing the water. "I do…security. Top secret stuff." He nodded thanks to the stranger as he returned the empty bottle. Turned to leave.

"Yeah?" asked the stranger, following. Chase suddenly noticed the man, dressed head-to-toe in cheap sweats, had the physique of an action star. "Sounds fascinating. Tell me—is starting Iron Grenadier pay competitive with Cobra blueshirt salaries, even when you factor in benefits?"

Chase lost the remaining air in his lungs. "What?"

The stranger's fist came just shy of breaking his nose. Chase was on the grass before Lt. Falcon could finish the first shake of his knuckles. Behind the tree stepped the Sarge. The two of them dragged Chase back into the hiding space. Falcon located the keys in his front left pocket first.

"I'd say we're the same size. Think we'll find an Iron Grenadier suit in his closet?" he asked, dangling them above Slaughter's head.

The Sarge, who'd spent weeks collecting intel on Destro's recruitment practices, removed Chase's wallet, double-checked his driver's license. "We'll probably find lots of stuff his momma doesn't want to know about. Which is why I'm taking Polaroids of all'em and mailing them her way."

THE PRECISE LOCATION OF DESTRO'S BASE remained a mystery, in spite of Slaughter's best efforts. He'd extrapolated some form of sea base, miles into the Gulf of Mexico. A general location had been pinpointed, but satellite mapping offered nothing.

His first journey to the base, he just knew would be on a shipping vessel. Only question was how long he'd have to wait on the boat before finally docking. Wasn't expecting the collapsible bulk container he was hiding inside to be lifted hundreds of feet in the air by a heavy-load helicopter.

If he could've seen outside the thing, he would have witnessed quite the sight. An unholy tower, emerging from the water. The color of Aelian's infamous Purple Snake, with the metallic texture of some unholy _Blade Runner_ fantasy.

One of its jagged extremities opened, revealing an entrance. The helicopter released its cargo, returned to the safety of shore. A team of Grenadiers loaded the crate onto a four-wheeled steel dolly, griped and kvetched the entire time. A series of announcements and warning bleeps were broadcast over the intercom, cautioning the crew to prepare for imminent descent.

The Sarge was puzzled by the commotion, even as he enjoyed hints of sea spray entering the cracks of his container. Did not experience a similar joy, however, as his stomach was left forty stories in the air.

"THAT DOES IT. Stop. Set this thing down."

"What's the issue?" asked Houston, the other Iron Grenadier tasked with hauling the crate.

"Ever since we unloaded this thing, I told Inventory this crate was too heavy," Walken said with frustration. "Weighs twice, easy, what the rest of these containers weigh."

"They didn't listen?"

"Do they ever?" his coworker snorted. "So, forget them. We're opening this thing, and whatever it is, I'm gonna prove to those know-it-alls that—"

Walken's inflated threat was silenced by the image of a hand, specifically a _fist_ , punching its way out of the crate.

"Hold up, buttercup! I won't keep you in suspense!" The Sarge delivered his one-liner, as always, with impeccable timing.

Houston charged first, received a boot to his abdomen. Walken, nearly six inches Houston's superior in size, gulped down a wad of spit. Taking the Iron Grenadier assignment, he hadn't been expecting any contact with the Joe team. Let alone the drill sergeant with the well-documented constitution of a vending machine.

Walken drew his sidearm, soon had a view of it going vertical, as he felt the two long bones in his forearm snap. The Sarge struck fast and heavy, leaving Walken on the polished floor, questioning if he could ever use his right arm again.

Bouncing against the Sarge's hip as he galloped down the hallway was his trusty duffel bag. Weighed down by an excessive amount of explosives.

FALCON, still mulling over the alien nature of Destro's undersea headquarters, still wrapping his head around how any of this actually worked, didn't register the mercenary's scaly presence at first.

Standing on the dais, addressing the troops, was Zartan. Another snake he barely had a history with. Allegedly stole the Dreadnoks' bounty for their work with Cobra-La and disappeared into the sunset. Word was, Zartan had grown bored with retirement. Had taken up new employment.

"Guess it ain't a rumor," Falcon whispered to himself, enduring Zartan's "morning motivation" for the Iron Grenadiers. Falcon snapped out of his haze when he caught Zartan's reference to the Grenadiers' recent victory in New Jersey. Their brave "liberation" of a teenager by the name of Bobby Cooper. Taken right under the noses of a team of Joes. Falcon's blood began its simmer.

"Remember, men, this is no repeat of Cobra. There is no incompetent bag of wind heading this organization," his voice echoed, amplified ten times its normal resonance, thanks to the sound system. "We work under a _professional_ , now."

Falcon couldn't resist the fantasy. Just had to know if Zartan's chin was any sturdier than his purple-haired brother's. Now wasn't the time to find out, however.

Not with Dr. Mindbender, walking as if in a daze, entering the corner of his eye. Falcon followed his movement, examined the doctor as he disappeared down the adjacent hallway. Standing in the back row of the battalion, Falcon had little trouble slipping away from the line-up.

Behind him, Falcon could overhear Zartan moving on to the next order of business. A thorough dressing-down of whoever was responsible for naughty doodles of the Baroness found in the men's barracks. "Trust me, you sniveling jackals, you don't want our esteemed leader to find you in possession of such material. Not if your head values its neck, that is."

THREE IRON GRENADIERS were patrolling level 17-K. At least they were still using English symbols. If Destro was now communicating in alien hieroglyphs, the Sarge wouldn't have known what to do. While whistling to gain their attention, he began to speculate on possibilities.

 _They hire some Hollywood puke to decorate this place? What do they call those paintings that make it look like the landscape goes on forever?_

His fist rammed through the first Grenadier's face mask, smashed it into dozens of itty-bitty pieces.

 _Did Destro invent some kind of time travel device? Wasn't that a scheme Cobra had cooking back in the day?_

The second had swallowed some nerves, put some thought into his attack. Feinted with a left jab; thought he'd be clever, force the Sarge to extend towards him. Then, he'd hammer that ridiculous chin with a hard cross.

 _Cripes, maybe aliens really did build this place!_

The Sarge absorbed the hard cross into his palm, didn't even look the meatbag's way as he pressed down hard, shattered the bones.

 _That'd be some luck. We finally take down chrome-face, only to have an army of his little green buddies declare war on the whole blessed planet._

The third Grenadier watched the fall of his allies. Raised his hands, offered no resistance. The Sarge showed some mercy, removing him from battle with a simple nerve pinch.

The duffel was unzipped again, more explosives removed and secured against the walls. Finishing the job, he caught one of the incompetent maggots writhing on the glossy floor. The Sarge lifted the man high, asked the question he'd forgotten to propose to the previous seven losers he'd come across.

"Hey, barf-for-brains! I need to know where Destro's quarters are, and you need to keep your kidneys. Think we can cut a deal?"

MINDBENDER, still in his daze, didn't notice the Iron Grenadier pacing him. Didn't hear the muffled _umph!_ of the Grenadier assigned to protect the lab from behind his back, either. Falcon searched for a decent spot, disposed of the body; didn't yet appreciate the twisted workshop around him.

The sound of the electric door dominated his attention, forced Falcon to hide out with the Grenadier he'd just sent to slumberland. Two Iron Grenadiers entered, followed by their commanding officer, Zartan.

"What's wrong with you, Mindbender?" Zartan asked the doctor, already peering into one of his microscopes. "You know you're not to be walking the halls unattended."

Mindbender's body language indicated he didn't view Zartan as someone worth addressing. Following an uncomfortable silence, the doctor turned away from his microscope. "These rules feel like high school, Zartan. Am I to assume you've been recruited to play hall monitor?"

The shapeshifter sneered. Turning to the two Grenadiers, he said, "Keep an eye on him. Two chaperones at all times." As he reached the door, Zartan gave the doctor a final message. "Destro is no fool, Mindbender. He knows you're behind schedule. Knows you're likely planning something stupid." With a menacing thrust of his pointer finger, Zartan used his enhanced vocals to accentuate his parting word: "Don't."

Falcon, meanwhile, maintained a decent view of the lab, snug in the corner of the room that housed the generator. He breathed in the ambiance. Multi-colored tanks, several feet high. An odd, twisty material floating in the solutions. In the center of the lab, a metal framework, containing the writhing makings of some freak of science.

Falcon hadn't been a member when the Joes encountered Mindbender's previous lab. But he'd read the reports. Committed them to memory, following that incident with his brother.

This was the collection of tissue and technology used to birth his brother's killer.

Through a cloud of red, Falcon abandoned his hiding place. Ran straight towards that freak's father. "Halt!" warned one of the guards.

Falcon didn't listen, didn't register the stupidity of his attack. He was still in an Iron Grenadier uniform. Still in a position to pull off something stealthy, assuming he got it done before the Sarge's timers went off.

The guards swarmed, one going high and the other low. "High" soldier just ended up as a living sweater around Falcon's neck. "Low," however, was able to trip him up. And, with Falcon on the ground, "High" was able to redeem himself a bit. Took the easy shot against Falcon's cheek, forced the mask to fly across the floor.

"Not gonna stop me…" Falcon growled underbreath. In the midst of the commotion, he removed his sidearm. Mindbender, previously enjoying the performance, caught sight of the gun and panicked.

"Secure that weapon! Don't let him—"

Mindbender was safe from the inevitable blast. Not as if Falcon could get off a credible shot while in the midst of a dogpile. The round did find another way to pierce Mindbender's heart, however. Escaping the pile of flesh, cracking into a saline-protein tank that housed the genetic make-up of the Chinese warrior-philosopher Sun Tzu.

"No!" the doctor squealed, clutching both fists in frustration. He marched towards Falcon, now safely in the hands of the guard. "Not again!" Mindbender roared, kicking the captive Falcon in the chin.

Was the anger a show for his watchers? Genuine frustration at having his experiment undermined? Even the doctor wasn't entirely certain.

"I can't believe—for a _second_ time, one of them has ruined this process!" The second kick, this one beyond gratuitous, busted Falcon's bottom lip open.

"A curious twist of luck, I agree," spoke Destro's confident baritone, as the electric doors slid open to welcome him—and his guest. "But, it appears history is repeating itself in other, more advantageous ways, as well."

Hogtied to the hood of Destro's Despoiler hover-jet was Falcon's supposed ride out of this place. Ten minutes earlier, the Sarge had allowed curiosity get the best of him. Spent too much time rummaging through Destro's files, not enough time planting the C4. The chrome-plated disease got the drop on him, used the superior firepower of his hovercraft to "persuade" Slaughter into surrendering.

Even the sturdiest of vending machines still get dinged.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE SARGE WAS STRAPPED TO THE OPERATING TABLE, thoroughly doped up on horse tranquilizers. Destro was quite aware of what the man was capable of, wasn't going to risk allowing him to move. Cloudy mind, vertiginous stomach, couldn't temper Slaughter's rage. Once again, these diseased maggots were stealing his DNA—using it to bring a ghoulish freak of nature to life.

The miserable luck. Through the haze, he wondered how it all could've happened. How he'd ended up as an experiment in another one of Mindbender's labs. If the past few weeks were even _real_. Cobra successfully pulling the lieutenant over to their side. The breakout at Camp Alpha. His Renegades, all dead.

Nearby, Falcon was held on a chain by the guards. Any backtalk resulted in another bruise on his handsome face. After a few dustups, the lieutenant got the hint. Destro wanted the Joe to witness what he had an unintentional hand in creating. He realized it was perhaps risky, but years serving under Cobra Commander had gifted him with an appreciation for this brand of drama.

"Now, all of this hasn't lessened your resolve, has it, Doctor?" Destro asked, as Mindbender was giving the protoplasm armature a final review.

Tears forming in his eyes, Mindbender's voice broke when he opened the sentence. Had to try again. "All is in readiness. Once Slaughter's DNA enters the armature, the process will begin."

Destro merely nodded. Chose not to exploit the moment, not to push Mindbender too far. It was apparent the man was unsure of his decision. Hadn't chosen the right son, so to speak, during this tribulation. Picking at the scab hardly seemed beneficial.

An Iron Grenadier was ordered to place a containment shroud over the protoplasm, as Mindbender prepared to activate the bio-thermal inductor. He thought of the excitement crackling through his body, the first time the experiment reached this stage. At the time, he thought himself something of a god, creating life in his lab.

Launching the bio-thermal inductor, he realized today his hubris. No, more than that. His own sickening obliviousness.

Sparks of electricity flickered about the protoplasmic form. Lights began to cut on and off, the floor rumbled…seismic vibrations would soon reach land, baffle local scientists.

"Know that I am the one you seek," spoke the shrouded figure, arising from his bed. An orchestral score, befitting that of a vicious deity demonstrating his authority on the doubting peasants, would not be hard to imagine. "I am the one born to rule, destined to conquer." Mindbender, swept up in the conflicting emotions, collapsed to the floor. "Let those who _fear_ me, follow me. Let those who oppose me, die! For I am Serpentor— and this I command!"

The Sarge wanted to laugh, unleash a vicious gibe. Unfortunately, his impaired motor skills weren't permitting his tongue to move.

Destro offered a round of applause. Amazing, that this iteration would speak verbatim the words bellowed out by his predecessor. Of course, Destro would have to rechristen the beast, eliminate that serpentine moniker. And, if memories of his past truly remained, explain to him why the fourteen bones of his facial skeleton had been altered in that protoplasmic stew. Why Serpentor would be seeing a new face, one even more striking, in the mirror.

Time enough to explain it all later, Destro was sure. Their genetic superman would recognize the brilliance of Destro's stratagem.

Tears clouding his vision, Mindbender dared to look upon his creation. Self-preservation spoke, told him to recognize the nearly three hundred pounds of genetically-altered perfection as his proper legacy. His true offspring.

"You there!" spoke the nude Adonis, finger aimed at Mindbender. "Why are you blubbering like some abandoned child?"

Destro stepped between them. "This is the scientific mind responsible for your birth, great Serpentor. Please allow him a moment to…compose himself." He stepped closer, offered a handshake. "I am Destro, esteemed leader of this organization."

Falcon, having endured enough, screamed with rage.

Serpentor looked at the soldier with disgust. "And who is this, who would intrude upon my moment?"

Falcon ignored the Grenadier pulling at his chains. "The Rawhide who put you under the dirt the first time, pal. The soldier who's gonna have a blast doing it a _second_ time."

"Ignore him for the present, dear Serpentor," advised Destro, guiding Serpentor away by placing his arm across the genetic specimen's shoulder. "Now, in a previous life, difficult as this might be to believe, we've already forged a bond on the battlefield."

" _Hmph_. Numerous memories of battle flit about in my mind. They seem contradictory…absurd…but you, golden face, are present in none."

"The circumstances are unusual, but we'll address them later. In the meantime—"

"Hey!" shouted Falcon from behind, elbowing the closest guard. "You're not brushin' me off that easy!"

Serpentor turned, fury in his eyes. "This brash young fool seems determined to taste the back of my hand!"

"He'll be dealt with later, Serpentor. Let us concern ourselves with—"

Serpentor grabbed Destro by the collar. "Would you take me for some frightened tabby? Believe you I'd ever cower from a fight?! Never!" Serpentor tossed Destro aside, aimed his right arm towards the Grenadiers. "Guards, bring him to me. This, I command!"

"But you've yet to don your ceremonial garb!" protested Destro from the floor.

Serpentor removed the remains of his shroud. "So? I take it I've not been resurrected by a gaggle of prudes, have I?"

Falcon, swaggering free of the guards, snorted. "I'm gonna beat you so hard, freak, you're not even gonna be wearing that ugly smirk on your face."

"Your boasts are meaningless, boy…though I do enjoy the virile banter."

The lieutenant took the first swing, gave no thought to strategy. Serpentor lifted his palm to block, gave no impression he even felt the blow. "Rather brave, striking first."

The genetic marvel's fingers began to squeeze. Falcon was astonished by the strength. "Brave…and foolish."

Serpentor followed with a punishing kick to Falcon's low abdomen. The lieutenant staggered, cursed himself for giving his opponent this advantage. Serpentor charged forward, determined to end this. Wasn't expecting Falcon to recover so quickly, to flip him over the shoulder and on to the floor.

The Adonis braced his palms, prepared to stand. "A portion of luck smiled upon you, boy. But do not— _hurrk!_ " Serpentor recognized the sensation around his neck. The impetuous horror had him in a headlock. Memories of a coliseum, of a crowd of breathless spectators eager for blood came to mind. Serpentor couldn't hold back the grin.

"Ain't luck, pretty boy. I'm just that blasted good."

He turned his head to the side to protect his airway, positioned himself to gain a secure hold on Falcon's arms. Serpentor tucked his chin, relocated his shoulders to place his chin into the crook of the boy's elbow.

Casting pride aside, Serpentor dropped to his knees, prevented Falcon from locking securely around his neck. He leaned forward, thrust violently, created enough room to breathe. Before Falcon could compensate, Serpentor had flipped the soldier on his side. All the while, Serpentor did not release his grip on Falcon's arm. He twisted the appendage, stopping just short of breaking the bone.

End this early? What was he, mad? This hothead had proven to be quite the entertainment.

Watching the performance, upside down on his gurney, was the Sergeant. He fought through the haze, regained enough control over his body to release that frustrated scream. Serpentor turned to the madman, dragged his current toy along by the arm.

"And does this one have something to say?"

Destro stepped between them. "One of the contributors to your DNA make-up, Serpentor. He's not worth your concern." Destro motioned towards the lieutenant. "And neither is he, truthfully. Why not allow our minions to deal with these pests? We have great works ahead of us. Historic feats to attend to."

Serpentor considered the words. Looked upon Falcon as a starving man would a denied meal. "Perhaps," he whispered with reluctance. Serpentor used his foot to deliver a final message to Falcon. Such is the life of a king. Always subjugating your wants for the greater good.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

TO THE SURPRISE OF THE STAFF, Jinx made a steady exit from her room without the aid of a wheelchair. Or even a walker.

Her mood was still foul, though, pondering the fate of Falcon, and questioning just how she could back up her boast. The brash, yet likely impossible claim, that she could locate Storm Shadow before he caused any more harm.

"Miss, ah, Doe?" asked the nurse at the desk, phone receiver buried into her shoulder.

Jinx motioned for Tommy and Keiko to give her a moment. Assumed she'd have to explain, once again, her unique insurance situation to the staff. Realized a half-second later the nurse wanted her to take this call.

Quizzically, Jinx studied the receiver before finally speaking. "Who's this?"

"Hopefully, love, you haven't forgotten the sound of my voice," came the response. Horrid reception. The kind you get in some backwater eastern European fishing village.

"Burke! I see you're as much a creep as ever. What do you want?"

Matthew Burke. Top spy man for Her Majesty's ultra-hush hush intelligence agency. She'd experienced a regrettable run-in with both Burke and Storm Shadow recently in Ireland.

"There's no call for such indignation, my beauty. I'm merely calling out of a sense of international cooperation."

Jinx's nostrils flared. "A.U.N.T.I.E. isn't known for freebies, Burke."

"Perhaps I'm on a secure line. Perhaps my superiors aren't aware I'm placing this call."

"Then what is it? What do you want?"

"Why, to catch up, love." The treacly nature of his response felt like nails on the chalkboard. Jinx recalled his previous attempts to sweet talk her, to use her as an intel source. If not more. "You absconded so swiftly from the emerald isle, I was robbed of the opportunity of informing you of my next mission. An undercover assignment in quite the bleakest of environments. One undergoing a bit of political turmoil at the moment."

She sighed. Had to turn away from the receiver for a moment before answering. "Fascinating. You got a point in there somewhere? How'd you know to find me here anyway?"

"Dearest A.U.N.T.I.E. always has her sources. And, if you'd temper that American bravado for a moment and just _listen_ , I'm confident you'd glean the purpose behind this call."

"Fine."

Burke's tone grew less frivolous. Began to hint that perhaps he wasn't full of something smelly and foul. "In this bear of an environment, observing the unsteady winds of history, I've become privy to certain negotiations. Ones between this fractious mess of a government and an organization of which we're both acquainted."

"Wait. Are you saying—?"

"It seems their leader has recently been foiled on a mission," he continued with no pause, "but he's quite defiant about finishing it. Has offered certain parties in this administration access to purloined intel, in exchange for a flight to the stars. Now, does any of that sound—?"

"Cripes, Burke. You couldn't have come right out and said that?!"

Jinx dropped the receiver on the desk. Informed Tommy and Keiko they had to leave immediately.

"My dear?" spoke a faint voice on the line. "Jinx? Hello?"

DESTRO ALLOWED A LIVE-FEED OF BOBBY'S SICKBED. Generous of him. Mindbender kept a concerned eye on the monitor, noted with dejection how far Bobby's condition had deteriorated in recent days.

And only a few feet away, Serpentor was bathing in his nutrient-rich bath. Still disoriented from his awakening, it was relatively easy to convince the grandiloquent thug to retire to the chamber. How would their former emperor react, though, were he to discover the mood stabilizers mixed in with the proteins? Destro believed their new incarnation could be easier to "influence," given the proper conditioning.

Time would tell.

Mindbender wheeled his lab chair over to the tank. Studied his sleeping creation. It'd be a simple thing, to manipulate the temperature. Create an overdose of certain chemicals. Or cut off the breathing apparatus' oxygen supply. To end the life of what he once called his greatest creation.

A trembling hand reached for the controls. Took far too long to enter the basic command. His finger hovered over the "Enter" key. A thought came to him, reminded the doctor of the potential of losing two sons in as many days.

The finger hovered, then found its way to the "Cancel" key. The doctor questioned if he could ever forgive himself.

THE MESSAGE HAD been relayed to General Hawk. He couldn't inform her of how exactly the Joes would respond, just how they would sniff out the Commander's influence in the USSR, but he thanked her for the intel.

 _He told you it was a nice move. Nasty._

She expected as much. When she asked about Lt. Falcon, on what had been decided, if there were any means of contacting him, she received an equally cryptic answer.

 _Keone's side had been carved open. The traitor deserved it; he'd stolen the blade, used it to frame her days earlier._

That one stung. Weeks had passed. Something had to have been decided by now. She deserved an answer.

 _Thirteenth birthday. He told you how important it was. Weren't thinking of that lecture, years later, at the boathouse._

The insult couldn't be allowed to fester, though. Jinx's attention couldn't be diverted from the blade.

 _Only wanted to finish the monster in white for good this time. Couldn't have predicted just how deep this thin blade can cut._

Somehow, she knew the _tantō_ possessed the answer. Perhaps it was the Blind Master's voice, enduring still, putting that bug in her ear. Telling her to prick her index finger with the blade, allow her blood to mingle with the dried ichor left behind by Storm Shadow.

 _First the Soft Master. Then Haruko. The others, a blur. The blade was dropped into the embers. Abandoned in disgrace._

Left behind by Keone, yes, but not only him. The stains had been washed away, but the remnants of so many family members lingered on the blade. Only now, in her third hour of meditation, was she able to discern the truth.

 _He'd been sent there to recruit an army. So he'd thought. Didn't understand until too late the lie. This was the final test. He'd been tasked with proving his loyalty. Proving all ties to his past life had been severed._

The closet door opened. "Tommy!" she called. His footsteps soon entered from the living room.

"What is it?" he asked, not yet close enough to notice the sweat covering her face.

"Home, Tommy…" she barely managed to get out. Between pants, she finished, "We need to go back home."

FALCON INSPECTED THE SARGE WITH A SMIRK.

"It's been two days. That junk they shot into you has worn off by now, right? Don't think the walls are melting into pink ice cream, do ya?" asked Falcon, clad now in his undershirt and boxers.

The Sarge, standing, was more concerned with the narrow view provided by their cell door. "I'm all salient and shipshape, Lieutenant." He looked back. "How are you holding up? That's the question."

Falcon pshaw'ed. The Sarge's routine deflection every time the question was broached. "Don't worry about me. What happened before, I'd repeat that every day of my life until the end came. Don't care if I take the beating or not, just feeling that freak's jaw crack under my knuckles did me a world of good."

The Sarge nodded, didn't give much more of a response. This mission had been fouled up pretty bad, he knew. Only questions now revolved around Destro. The kind of operation he was running. Just what he had planned for Serpentor.

Falcon, frustrated, increasingly bored, was ready to crack another joke. Wasn't expecting Sarge to abruptly tense up like that.

"Hey, pukeface!" he called down the hall. "I don't recall requesting any visitors."

The lieutenant stood, stepped to the cell door in a hurry. From their left approached Dr. Mindbender, carrying two duffel bags.

"I'm not here to exchange insults," Mindbender responded, his tone lacking the hostility he'd become famous for. "There's a far more important concern, Joes. It involves an innocent, a young man who has, unfairly, been drafted into this war."

Falcon's eyes rolled. "Think it's time to break out a teeny tiny violin, Sarge."

The sergeant's index finger curled, rested beneath his mustache. He considered Mindbender, began to question if the vermin possessed even a sliver of sincerity.

"Go on, Mindbender," he answered.

"His name is Bobby Cooper," Mindbender spoke, his cadence speeding up. "He was, until recently, under watch by your organization. His condition is worsening, and I fear in twenty-four hours, he'll…" The doctor had to turn away.

Falcon and the Sarge's body language betrayed different reactions. Finally, Mindbender collected himself, finished his thought. "I fear we have less than a day to save his life."

" _We?_ " scoffed Falcon _._ "Where'd that come from?"

Mindbender didn't even seem tempted by the bait. "With my aid, you could be free of this prison. All I ask is that you accompany me to Bobby's location. Call upon your organization's resources, give me the chance I need to save this boy's life."

Falcon looked to the Sarge for guidance. He considered the offer, countered with: "You think you've given us any reason to trust you, baldie?"

Mindbender lifted his hands defensively. "Skepticism is warranted, yes. But, I ask you, do you have any other options at the moment?"

PART VII: MONTAGE OF HECKCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE COMMANDER TOYED WITH THE FLOPPY DISK. Quite enjoyed the look on the face of his prey, the sunken eyes and parched lips of the deputy chairman.

"I don't think you understand, my comrade," the fiend hissed, leaning closer to the videophone. "Additional information can only be granted if my demandsss are met."

The deputy chairman repositioned himself. "But, our space program is…you understand, we do not possess the same luxuries as the Americans."

"How unfortunate for you." The disk was tapped against the arm of his cathedra a few more times. "But if you wish to know more of what the Americans have gleaned from their spies…if you wish to know _how_ this information escaped your nation in the firssst place…then the conditions cannot be ignored."

"I have superiors I must answer to…"

"I'm sure they'd understand. This lovely manned space station—the first of its kind—is quite the accomplishment." Under his domed helmet, the Commander's lips formed a patronizing grin. "It requiresss constant upkeep, yes? A steady stream of supplies from home. Is it so unreasonable to push up the time table for one of the deliveries? That a certain cargo could be placed safely inssside?"

The man with the sunken eyes nodded. Made promises to work towards a resolution before ending their secret communiqué. The Commander stood, exited his private quarters with an added bounce to his step.

He'd only managed to copy and preserve a fraction of the data found on that drive. The vast majority of the bytes—none of the info truly actionable—already sent the Soviets' way to establish his credibility. Not that they'd ever discover the truth, of course.

Stepping into the main chamber of the base, the Commander's grin turned even wider. Before him, row after row of specimen trays, all ready for the harvest. Ready for a good number of years now; kept inert by the advanced technology the Commander had spent his life studying.

He'd built this facility in secret, away from the prying eyes of his associates. Funded by money discreetly diverted from Cobra line items. Luckily, even during the realignment of Cobra's finances, the modest amounts shuffled this way remained unnoticed.

He knew his betters' plans, their scheme to remove humanity's influence on this globe by mutating the pests into a bestial form of self-parody. This hidden operation was always the contingency.

The Commander never truly doubted his betters, oh no. But now, with them all dead, the responsibility fell to him. The nobleman they'd dismissed as a failure, tried so hard to undermine in the past, would be the one to execute Cobra-La's most audacious plan.

Storm Shadow was walking the rows, inspecting the liquid cultures. He'd be here in the final moments, the Commander only now realized. So appropriate he'd be present to see things through to the end with his commander.

The ninja looked up; acknowledged his superior's presence. "They are…quite impressive."

"Indeed," the Commander responded, stepping closer to appreciate his work.

Storm Shadow had been pondering an element of the plan. Was finally able to formulate his question. "My understanding is these cannot be harvested without the aid of an incredible energy source."

"You understood correctly." A small laugh followed. "Tell me, do you think the sssolar flare forecasted for next week would suffice?"

The ninja lifted one of the vials; beheld it under the unearthly light of this avant-garde greenhouse."Assuming you could transport these bacterium into orbit, yes…"

The Commander kept chuckling. Took Storm Shadow a moment to realize he hadn't been kidding.

THE VOICE CAME FROM THE BACK. An unexpected disruption of the mandatory "benefits in kind" in-service. The stranger had some kind of nerve, interrupting an address from Destro himself.

The Iron Grenadiers turned to the rear of the auditorium. Discovered a perfect male specimen, like something created by Michelangelo. And just as nude as any of the master's immaculate sculptures.

"Stock options," spat the stranger. "Retirement benefits. What brand of soldier are you training, Destro?"

Their commander had already left the stage, rushed to circumvent the stranger from getting any closer to his men.

"One that's prepared for the twenty-first century," Destro told him in a hushed tone. "Iron Grenadiers must be a better class than the average Cobra flunky, Serpentor. We can't afford to repeat past mistakes."

Destro ushered Serpentor towards the west edge of the auditorium. "And why are you even here? You should be resting."

Serpentor flicked his hand. "A true emperor has no time for rest." His eyes turned to the assembled Grenadiers. "Why are you hiding me from my men, Destro? Is this not the army I've been created to lead?"

"One moment." Destro turned to his men, gestured towards the exit. "Our meeting has been postponed, gentlemen. We'll convene again at oh-eight-hundred." With a final wave of the hand, he added, "Dismissed."

Serpentor, watching his men file out, slammed his fist into his palm. "This is outrageous! I should be addressing the forces, inspiring them to enter battle! Dreaming of new worlds to conquer!"

"All in good time, oh mighty one. But you must understand, you've awakened in a different era. One that requires a finesse your forebears had little time to cultivate."

Serpentor was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

Destro motioned for the perfect man to follow him. They stopped inside the center of the auditorium floor. The press of a button on his glove summoned a glass case display. It rose from the floor, revealing a tailored black wool suit and silk dress shirt. Its designer had dressed three previous Best Actor winners at the Academy Awards. His fee reflected this.

The blood red tie was Destro's contribution. A subtle reference to the suit's true purpose. It would accompany him to Washington. Exploiting his charisma, godlike looks, and carefully forged résumé, Serpentor would rise through the ranks, travel from local statehouses to the true seats of power. Ensure the world remained at its natural state—remained at war. And that M.A.R.S. would be the firm benefiting from the _Sturm und Drang_.

The emperor's jaw was open.

"Serpentor, you must appreciate the times." Destro stepped to the suit, touched it with care. " _This_ is your ceremonial suit of battle. Caviar will now stain your lapel; not blood." He turned to the perfect male, a smile forming under his mask. "This is how you'll enter our modern world."

Teeth began to grind. "You… _dare?!_ "

"I LEFT when I was eighteen," Tommy told her as he pulled her body onto the summit. "Keone followed not long after. Wasn't expecting to ever come back. Feels so harsh in hindsight."

Jinx adjusted once again to the mountain air. Steeled herself, as the remains of the Arashikage Compound came into view.

"You were a kid," she spoke after finishing her thermos of hot tea. She was garbed in three layers of the Joes' experimental thermal gear. A wine-colored variation of her traditional _gei_. She'd loaned Uncle Tomisaburo his own suit, a light gray ensemble with matching balaclava.

Tommy removed a protein bar from his jacket pocket after lifting the mask. Offered a second bar to Jinx, who declined. "I was angry. Hard Master raised us like his own sons. Knowing how he died, those platitudes about how important it was to forgive the American…" Tommy shook his head. Took another bite before finishing. "I refused to listen. I know I broke the Soft Master's heart, but, Lord forgive me, I couldn't even stand the sight of his face by then. If I stayed…I just knew something horrible would happen. I had to leave."

"So you ran to America…"

Tommy swallowed, pocketed the wrapper. "My own form of rebellion."

"My father's, too. He left when you were young." Tommy gestured towards the ruins, questioning if Jinx were ready to continue. She nodded her agreement. "Doubt you'd remember him, Tommy," she added. "They told him—"

"That he was too soft. Too concerned with the world outside the compound. I was a child, Kimi…but, yes, I remember."

The stone gates surrounding the compound remained. Behind them, the vacant space that once housed their family home. Tommy and Jinx passed the gates wordlessly. Snow covered the ground Tommy walked as a child, the ground Jinx's feet had not experienced before today.

"It was a better life for him, California," she said, the wind freezing the tears now pooling in her eyes. "If only he'd been allowed to live peacefully there."

Tommy held in a breath before responding. Every word he'd speak was genuine, a sentiment he knew he should've expressed years ago. "What happened to your parents, to our family, is unforgivable, Kimi. I promise you, though—"

Tommy couldn't finish the thought. Was too distracted by the sight of Jinx walking at a steady pace—then seemingly getting smacked backward by what appeared to be nothing at all.

"You're kidding me!" she shouted, her voice carrying as much anger as disbelief.

"What?" shouted Tommy, running closer.

"Want to tell me how 'thin' air can be as hard as steel?" Jinx asked, gesturing towards the seeming nothingness behind her.

Tommy knocked on the air. It gave a metallic echo.

"This is impossible."

Jinx shook her head. "No. We've run into this tech before." She tossed her empty thermos at the air, watched it bounce off. "It's a hologram. Some kind of cloaking device."

"You think Keone is behind this?"

"Yeah." She looked up. Smiled. "And I ain't the only one."

Jinx pointed northward. Standing atop the mystery structure, although it certainly looked as if he were floating, was Snake Eyes.

"Always with the dramatic entrances…"

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE IRON GRENADIER UNIFORM Falcon stole earlier was a better fit, actually. The one brought by Mindbender was not generous in certain regions, a fact discovered by Falcon during their rushed exit through the halls. Still preferable to the Sarge's outfit, he knew. Mindbender didn't have a shot, finding a Grenadier the same size.

"We're not far," assured Mindbender, still clinging to whatever mystery he had left in that duffel bag.

The boy and his mother had been moved to a proper medical facility—or as "proper" as one owned by M.A.R.S. could be expected to be. Mindbender had discovered the locale during his time "off the clock," snooping into Destro's forbidden files.

Through the halls, Falcon overheard the commotion. A tense debate. Two familiar voices.

One advocated for covert movement. Sneaking into the halls of power, using the institutions of their enemies for their own benefit. The other sneered at the prospect. Called it cowardice.

Falcon said nothing. Only turned the other direction; followed the sound of the voices.

"What are you doing?!" shouted Mindbender.

"Fulfilling my obligation as a man. Maybe a foreign concept to a reptile."

The Sarge raised his voice, called to the end of the hallway. "Falcon, this is…" He hesitated to finish the thought. To Mindbender's horror, the sergeant began to sprint after Falcon. "Okay, it sounds like fun, to be honest."

Less than five minutes later, Slaughter was catching up with Falcon in the rafters above the auditorium. Falcon's sidearm was drawn. Crouching down, Slaughter's ill-fitting uniform exposed legs as pale as a snowdrift. Below them stood Destro and Serpentor, debating the subtler points of world domination.

"So, you thought this through?" asked the Sarge.

"The blast will just bounce off Destro's dome," said Falcon, anticipating Slaughter's rebuttal. "But his buddy over there, that test tube baby on acid, he's gonna feel this."

"Didn't answer my question, Lieutenant."

"Only regret is, this isn't face-to-face like last time." Falcon shook his head. Still refused to take his eyes off the target. "Whatever. If they keep clonin' 'em, I'll keep offin' 'em. And you can stop with that 'Lieutenant' nonsense."

"Have to respect rank, sir."

Falcon sucked air through his teeth. "We both know that's done. No rank for this foul-up. Not after what I did."

"If I thought that _was_ you, y'think I'd be here now?" the Sarge shot back, loud as he could without breaking cover. "Think you'd still be breathing?"

The lieutenant's disbelief still showed on his face. "Not that naive, Sarge. We both know I can't come back. And I appreciate you, giving me this last shot."

"I gave you this chance so you could dig the hole deeper for yourself?" The Sarge inched closer, unconsciously adopted a tenor he'd used on two special ladies in the past. "Seriously, what's your play here? Yeah, you're a good enough shot to drop Serpentor. You're also sharp enough to know a whole brigade of Destro's gunmen are gonna be pouring outta the walls."

Falcon's face broke then. Offered only a slight titter. "Still think it'll be worth it. Just bein' honest."

"Maybe I've given you impressions to the contrary, but think about this, kid—would even the ol' Sarge welcome a hopeless fight? One that could be easily avoided?"

Falcon finally turned to his ally. " _Really_ , Sarge?"

Slaughter grunted. "In these circumstances? A clean, quiet getaway sounds pretty good. Best chance of seeing those two girls I have at home."

"Fair enough." The lieutenant turned again towards his target. "I guess you'd better leave now."

"I'm not leaving without you, lunkhead. You can be a worthless load at times, but I need your help." The Sarge reserved the dramatic pause for his closer. "And that kid needs you, too, Lieutenant."

Falcon, his conscience now pricked, had to offer some defense. "Bet it's a con. We'd be better off, dealing with Mindbender right now. And by 'dealing with,' I'm talking about—"

The Sarge raised a hand. "Time comes, we might have to. But I have a feeling he isn't lying. And there's an innocent victim out there who's counting on us. Revenge might be sweet, but is it really worth the price you're considering?"

Falcon refused to answer at first. Tapped his hand against the top of the pistol a few times, did anything to avoid facing the question.

Finally, he holstered his sidearm. "Got a feeling I'll regret this…but fine. I'll follow your lead, Sarge."

The Sarge slapped his back, good-naturedly. "Good. Truth to tell, I didn't have any intentions of respecting rank, but I'm glad this ended without you slung over my shoulder."

As they stood, Falcon took note of the much longer shadow cast by the Sarge. Only realized then how easily Slaughter could've just manhandled him to get his way.

INTRUDER ALARM WAS SO LOUD, the Commander could feel it in his teeth.

"Storm Shadow!" he screeched. "Go out there and find out what's wrong!"

His loyal ninja obeyed, was out of sight before the Commander finished his order. It couldn't be them, could it? The Commander drew a breath, attempted to calm himself. Probably just some mountain creature, stepping in the path of the motion sensors.

Of course, those sensors were calibrated for the known wildlife. There'd never been a foul-up before. No denying these were human visitors. And, considering the location of this base, no casual tourists.

You don't climb to the summit of a mountain like this unless you truly want to be there.

"Cursesss!" he wheezed, kicking the computer display before him, fighting off repeating images of past failures. They were going to pull this one off, too, weren't they? These meddling roughnecks were going to undermine his final opportunity to make his ancestors proud.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

INSIDE DESTRO'S PRIVATE QUARTERS, the newly clothed Serpentor fumed.

"Our prisoners, gone," he stated with a smack to his palm. "Our chief scientist, missing. And yet, Destro, you present this façade of indifference?"

Destro, seated in his chair—the reclaimed throne of a 14th century Byzantine emperor—pressed fingertips together. "It's no façade, my friend. Merely a recognition of certain turns of fortune in this game. Nothing more."

Serpentor's rebuttal was interrupted by the knock of an Iron Grenadier. Destro waved the young soldier in. "Ah, sir," he spoke, nervously checking his notes. "We've tracked the missing vehicle. Trajectory has it arriving at the Galveston research facility within an hour."

"Not at all unexpected." Destro nodded to his subordinate. "You're excused."

The Iron Grenadier stepped carefully past the glowering eyes of the man in the suit.

"That's them, isn't it?" Serpentor asked. "They've taken your science officer, are using him in some form of attack, aren't they?"

"I suspect their motivation is far less troublesome." Destro turned from Serpentor, spoke the rest of his thought chiefly to himself. "And, admittedly, I will confess no small part in all of this. I, very likely, provoked the good doctor too far."

Serpentor punched the closest wall. "You're saying this man has turned on you? And yet, you blame _yourself_? Unimaginable!"

"Perhaps some situations require more than a few hours of life experience to understand," answered Destro, no longer maintaining the air of civility.

His words merely added gasoline to Serpentor's fire. "You dare mock the means of my creation? You dare _trivialize_ the decades of military experience bred into my very genes?"

"I'll do that and more, you petulant child," said Destro with raised voice, standing. He stepped closer to Serpentor, intent on showing the man he could not be intimidated.

Serpentor would not be cowed. He made the next move, violating Destro's personal space, spraying spittle against his beryllium steel. "This doctor is either a traitor or a hostage. Either way, he must be dealt with!"

Destro moved with a cat's speed, had two handfuls of his disloyal ally's silk shirt. "You will learn your role, 'Serpentor.' You'll understand that insubordination will not be tolerated."

Serpentor broke free, turned his back on Destro. "To think I could ever align with the likes of you!" His shoulders were thrown back, a breath was taken. Destro assumed the operatic peacock was prepared to launch into a monologue deserving of Shakespeare.

Instead, the perfect specimen removed a blade from his coat pocket, inserted it between Destro's ribs before the mogul recognized the move.

"I will personally deal with this," Serpentor spoke with both pride and agitation, looking down at the sputtering Destro. "And when I return, I'll take control of your feeble organization. Use it as the foundation of an empire that shall humble all that stood before it! And you Destro, shall silently bleed here…shall enter the eternal rest, knowing what you've unleashed on this planet." He stepped to the door, looked back for his closing line. Delivered it with a grin.

"This…I command!"

THE RECEPTIONIST had tried to explain protocol. Didn't appreciate three strangers bursting into his office, making snippy demands.

Didn't expect the living bear of a man leading them to wrap that bear paw around his face, to slam his head against the wall. Knock his "Employee of the Month" plaque to the carpet like it was nothing.

"And _I_ say it's perfectly okay, in this circumstance, to ignore protocol," their leader growled. Like his two companions, he was dressed as if he shopped exclusively at thrift shops. "You have any issues with that?"

The receptionist swallowed more than spit before answering. "No, sir. I suppose I don't."

"Excellent. We'll be on our way, then."

The Sarge allowed the narrow shouldered young receptionist to fall to the floor. He motioned for Falcon and Mindbender to follow. Entering the main hall, the fumes of something utterly foul contaminated their nostrils. The exterior presented a medical research facility, nothing that would arouse suspicions of its neighbors, a franchised tax accounting service and career placement center. The Joes reasoned very few members of the community ever made it past the reception. Were never welcomed with the stink of bitter almonds and melted Styrofoam.

Falcon turned to Mindbender. "Hey, shiny, why do I have a feeling we really don't want to know what goes on in here?"

"It's possible M.A.R.S. is involved in biochemical research that violates a few rules from some outdated treaties," the doctor answered, resisting the urge to boast any further. "But that isn't a concern at the moment."

"You realize I still don't trust you, right? Only reason why you're still on two feet is 'cause the Sergeant bought your little sob story."

"I'm a well-known softie." The Sarge, not looking back, grabbed Mindbender by the arm and pulled him forward. "And, Mindbender, if it turns out one syllable of what you said is bunk, you'd better prepare yourself for a personal view of your own sphincter."

The doctor took the hint, began to navigate the halls for the sake of the Joes. "I recognize our alliance is only temporary. But, very soon, I'll finish what must be done." At a crossroads, Mindbender paused. Eventually directed his reluctant allies westward. "After that…do as you will, Sergeant."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

TEN BATTLE ANDROID TROOPERS accompanied Storm Shadow into the cold. From the perspective of Snake Eyes, Jinx, and Tomisaburo, it was if they'd materialized out of pure nothingness.

"Keone!" Tommy shouted, more out of anger than shock. "What are you doing here?"

Storm Shadow lifted a finger, directed his android companions to attack. "You have no place here, Americans! You must leave…or die!"

"Some choice, cousin," Jinx shot back, leaping out of the line of fire, slicing through the arm of the closest B.A.T. with her _katana_. "You sure know how to throw a family reunion."

Tommy offered her cover fire in the form of impeccable _shuriken_ throws, the metal stars slicing through the critical circuitry exposed on the B.A.T.s' chest. "Keone!" he repeated, attempting to look past the androids. "You have to stop this!"

The ninja said nothing. The incident from the hospital, the internal horror as his eyes met Tomisaburo's…it had already become a blur. Just one more attachment to a fallen world the Commander helped purge from memory.

Snake Eyes didn't draw upon any traditional martial arts techniques. Opted to eliminate as many of his opponents as possible from his perch atop this invisible roof. The B.A.T.s swiftly located the source of his fire and retaliated, pushed him behind the industrial combustion stack, a solid seven-foot structure, now as invisible as the rest of the base. Just broad enough to repel their blasts.

For those uninformed, Ol' Snakes looked as if he was protected by his own personal force field. Or maybe he'd just been exposed as a visitor from Krypton.

Storm Shadow spotted the ninja above. He'd heard the stories before, about this ninja commando recruited by the Joes. How he'd mastered countless techniques, could test even the legendary Cobra assassin's skills.

A perfect distraction. No need to listen to the plaintive nonsense being spewed by that stranger in gray. Storm Shadow chose to find a grip on the side of the building, trust the B.A.T.s to actually do something right while he settled a personal score.

He reached the top in less than a minute. Had thoughts in his head of sneaking up on this Snake Eyes. Of scoring an easy first strike.

The man in black planted a combat boot in Storm Shadow's face the moment his head popped into view. Stunned, the ninja couldn't counter the next two moves—a ridge hand strike against his mastoid muscles, followed by a sharp elbow against the shoulders.

The third move, however, didn't go as the commando hoped. Storm Shadow had snapped out of his fog, saw the high knee strike coming. The ninja in white gripped the knee, dropped his body low and savaged the other kneecap.

Snake Eyes didn't have an opportunity to brace himself; his opponent took advantage of the position and pitched the commando off the roof. The three-story landing in the snow was as graceful as could be expected.

Storm Shadow watched the move with disgust. Dismissed the commando as a showoff. He performed his own somersault from the high position, executing a superior landing. Felt a fist flying towards his head the moment his boots touched the snow.

"This was our family home, Keone!" the young woman scolded. Storm Shadow blocked her punch, countered with a blow against her forearm.

That name. They kept using it against him. As if it could halt his attack. As if it should mean something.

Pops of gunfire continued to fill the background. One of the B.A.T.s had taken aim at Snake Eyes; ended up landing three shots against the hi-tech conservatory's cloaking shield instead. The device hissed a final goodbye, sputtering into obsolescence.

The image of pure blue sky crackled in and out of reality for a few moments. Soon enough, the truth was revealed. On the ashes of the Arashikage ancestral home now stood a concrete, glass, and metal monstrosity.

"Keone…you let _him_ do this, didn't you?" Jinx yelled with disgust, landing a back fist strike against her cousin's chin.

Storm Shadow's rage could no longer lay dormant. "You! Stop calling me that!" he declared with razors in his throat. The ninja gripped Jinx, threw her aside in his rage.

Her body traveled several yards. Had a regrettable meeting with a metallic panel at the end of her journey.

"You're gonna pay for that, Keone!" Tommy cried, hammering his brother's side with a leaping roundhouse kick. "For all of this!"

Storm Shadow rolled towards the snow, reached for a _shuriken_ as he fell. Growled as he flicked his wrist, released the perfect throw.

The star sliced Tommy's left shoulder. Caused an involuntary shout of pain, a momentary bending of his knees. Storm Shadow exploited the opening, came back with a fierce kick to Tommy's chest.

With Tommy now on the ground, Storm Shadow reached for the scabbard on his back. Sword drawn, he shouted loud enough for all to hear, "That name you keep speaking…I will hear of it no more!"

Yards away, Jinx was shaking off the blow. A half-second before she turned back towards the battle, a peculiar air current caught her attention. She stepped closer to the anomaly. Between the metallic panels, she caught a sliver just a tad wider than the rest. She pressed her hand against it.

Warm. _Very_ warm.

Jinx removed her sai. Swiped it through the gap. Watched as the hidden door opened.

"And I bet they'll _still_ say I have bad luck when this is over," she muttered.

THE NARROW SHOULDERED MAN AT THE DESK was collecting the various tchotchkes that had fallen to the floor, during the earlier unpleasantness. Turned at the sound of the front door chimes.

Witnessed four forms enter his office. Three of them Iron Grenadiers, the renowned soldiers under employ of the firm's proprietor. Not the type of men to make casual visits. Within M.A.R.S. operations, the appearance of Grenadiers was never greeted with delight.

Leading them, a stranger in a tailored black suit. The mystery figure had the looks of a model; the demeanor of Genghis Khan with a toothache.

The receptionist, the lowliest of serfs in this organization, couldn't have known the story. Couldn't have known of the revived Cobra emperor, of Destro's futile attempt to coopt him for M.A.R.S.'s purposes, of the three Grenadiers appointed to serve as his personal guard. (Similarly, the three soldiers assigned the Serpentor detail were ignorant of his traitorous actions against their leader.)

"Y-yes, can I help you?"

The handsome man with the worrisome grimace responded with no hesitation. "The one known as Mindbender. Where is he?"

"I would need some confirmation of y-your identity before—"

The receptionist felt his head slammed against the wall again. Heard the same feeble _thud_ of his prized citation hitting the carpeted floor.

"You will need nothing but several pints of blood, if you again speak to your emperor in such a manner." The stranger moved closer, had the curious scent of formaldehyde and mashed peas on his breath. "Where…is… _the doctor_?"

CHAPTER FORTY

THE SEVERED B.A.T. head collided against Storm Shadow's skull. He lost his balance, nearly tripped over his intended victim.

From his vantage on the ground, Tommy saw his ally a few yards away, standing above a beheaded android. Tommy nodded towards Snake Eyes, offered a silent thank you. Then, he reached, grabbed Storm Shadow by the arm, and pulled himself up while plowing his fist into the ninja's midsection.

"Are you ready for this to be over, Keone?" asked Tommy.

Storm Shadow slipped away from Tommy's embrace. Attempted a snap punch that was blocked. "You're going to _stop that_ ," demanded the ninja. "You will stop calling me that name!"

"It's who you are," Tommy fired back, blocking another strike, far sloppier than you'd expect from the nimble master. Tommy pulled his brother into a clinch hold. "And I'm sick of these lies! This has to end, Keone."

Storm Shadow struggled like mad, yet Tommy found the strength to restrain him with one hand. To use the other to grip the mask his brother adopted years before. To pull it off.

Keone's face, the same one Tommy saw in the mirror daily, was exposed to the elements.

" _This_ is the face I know, Keone. This is the man you're convinced is dead."

Tommy was speaking to himself as much as his brother. Some small voice was still whispering to him, telling him not to grasp at straws. That poor, stubborn Keone had been just one of dozens of Arashikage victims.

The truth was like barbwire laced medicine. Tommy knew he needed it, to have this finally confirmed. But swallowing it was no pleasure.

"It's all true, isn't it? Keone, our family…Kimi's parents…it was always you, wasn't it?" Keone struggled under Tommy's hold. Tommy tightened his grip, forced Keone to listen. "All of this blood on your hands, Keone! _Why?!_ "

Keone released an unholy cry. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know _you!_ " he shouted, wild-eyed. The ninja's agitation gave him renewed strength; enabled him to wrestle free of the hold, to elbow Tommy square in a particular nerve cluster.

INSIDE THE FACILITY'S OPERATING ROOM, Mindbender examined the medical textbook, reassured himself he was ready. Admittedly, his surgeon's scalpel tended to penetrate decaying flesh, not the living, but the time for doubts was done. On the tray to his left rested the handheld refrigeration pouch, containing the substance he'd risked his life to develop.

Destro desired a recreation of their perfect genetic specimen. Mindbender sought a means of saving his boy.

The lab gave birth to both, or so the doctor dreamed. The cloned tissue he'd spent the previous weeks developing would be grafted onto the boy's damaged cranial nerves. Give him a chance at life no other father's son could possess. Perhaps offer the doctor some measure of redemption for past sins.

Outside the surgery room, his ex-wife paced the hallway. He told her he'd arrived to save their child. Her answer was icy silence.

"Doctor, are you certain about this?" asked the lead OR nurse. Mindbender recognized her as a fellow Cobra ex-pat. Belinda Vickson. He recalled signing off on her hiring sheet; remembered complaints amongst the injured blueshirts of her nonexistent bedside manner. Vickson possessed the proper skills, however, and the doctor was pleased to see her this day.

"I'd give anything for certainty at this moment, truthfully." Mindbender took a breath, stepped to the table. "But this young man has no other options."

Mindbender studied the pale flesh, the frail frame, of his son. Thought of the boy who loved NCAA Basketball and Sunday afternoon football games with a passion, even though his bony physique and asthmatic lungs circumvented any hopes of ever participating in such activities.

The doctor refused to allow any tears to form. Drew upon his Cobra resolve; promised himself he'd treat this as just another experiment. Wouldn't allow nerves, doubts, regrets…none of the sentiments of lesser scientists to inhibit his work here today.

Thirty feet above, Falcon and the Sarge occupied the observation room. In Slaughter's hands was a manila envelope, still sealed, given to him by Mindbender minutes earlier. On his honor, the sergeant was asked to only open if Bobby's surgery couldn't be completed. Sarge was stewing over the concept of "honor," of a weasel like Mindbender evoking it.

Falcon's eyes were glued to the table below. "And me without my popcorn."

Arms crossed, Sarge was also fixating on another of the doctor's activities—Mindbender's recent revival of the living slime known as Serpentor. His ability to—yet again—steal a portion of the Sarge's DNA and give life to that unholy abomination. "After we make sure this kid is okay, you want five minutes alone with the doc?"

The lieutenant did think on it. "Nah. We need to be adults about this. Just give me three."

Less than a second after Falcon's crack, the doors of the operating room were kicked open. In marched the well-dressed Serpentor, followed by three of his guard.

"Mindbender!" he bellowed. "There you are!"

The doctor gripped his scalpel tighter. "Why are you here?! Don't you realize what you're inter—"

"Where are those soldiers?" Serpentor shouted, stepping to Mindbender. Looking down, he finally noticed the patient. "Who is this juvenile?" he asked with revulsion.

Thirty feet above, the Sarge's arm was against Falcon's chest, preventing his hand from reaching his sidearm. "I know you want to bust through this glass, Lieutenant," he said with an understanding, yet firm, tone. "But you've gotta realize how dumb that'd be. Let's see if we can deal with those pukes in a less obvious fashion."

Falcon's throat rumbled, then his body relaxed. With a nod, he signaled to Slaughter that he understood. Now free, Falcon reached for the intercom button.

"We're up here, bellycrawler," the Lieutenant spoke with a hostile arrogance. "Think you could find your way without a trail of breadcrumbs?"

Serpentor looked above, recognized his prey. His hands pulled Mindbender closer. "I think not. I think you'll come to meet _me_ , coward." Serpentor's forearm pressed against the doctor's neck. "Or else your newfound ally will pay the price."

"He ain't my—" Falcon's eyes closed; his fist was gnawed by his upper row of teeth. " _Fine_. Just make sure that kid isn't hurt. Let all of the nurses out, too."

Serpentor examined the room, laughed at his opponents' weakness. "I'll grant you that much. What follows might be too much for weaker stomachs."

Falcon watched as the surgery team wheeled Bobby's table out of the room. "Looks like we finally agree on something, pal."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"I SUSPECT YOUR NEW ALLIES have more gusto than brains," spoke Serpentor, forearm still pressed against the doctor's neck. "There's no tactical advantage for them here."

"They could've eliminated you from above," a defiant Mindbender answered. "Their code of honor wouldn't allow them to endanger—"

"I'm well aware, Doctor. No lectures, please. But what purpose, ultimately, did the gesture serve?"

The taunt forced Mindbender to ponder his former emperor's words. To recognize the true meaning behind them. A vision of the slaughter to follow, should the Joes not succeed, caused his stomach to go sour.

To his left, still on the accompanying tray, lay his scalpel.

"You monster. I should've expected no less."

"Yes, good doctor, I suppose you know your creation too well."

Mindbender reached from behind his back, was fortunate enough to poach the scalpel from the tray before Serpentor could notice. With no hesitation, the doctor used his limited mobility to jab the scalpel into Serpentor's left hip.

"Yeergh!" he growled, as Mindbender broke free. He reached past his personal abomination, made certain to obtain the refrigerated pouch before leaving. Serpentor's private guard opened fire on the doctor; were unable to halt his escape.

Stepping into the fire (ruining at least one Grenadier's shot, truthfully) was Serpentor, shaking a fist with fury. "Dog! You'll pay a sour taste for—"

The sight of Slaughter and Falcon brushing past Mindbender as they entered the doorway interrupted the emperor's threat. Falcon moved like a recently freed tiger, landing a solid right hook on Serpentor's chin.

"Want to pick up where we left off?" goaded Falcon, unaware the Sarge had turned around behind him, opting to pursue Mindbender.

Serpentor wiped his sleeve against the bloodied chin. "You're little more than a distraction now."

The perfect man telegraphed a front kick, intentionally drew Falcon's attention to his leg. Punished him for playing the mark a millisecond later, leaping towards the lieutenant while simultaneously throwing a cross instead. Falcon felt a rattle in his jaw, one that carried memories of that battle inside the Himalayas.

He wondered if this vermin could remember that night. If memories of Serpentor's previous demise were somehow encoded into the oddity's DNA. Falcon didn't have an opportunity to entertain a mental debate, however, as a follow-up sweep kick from Serpentor sent him to the operating room's floor. Sent him there head first.

Serpentor, his pristine face and pristine tailored suit, filled Falcon's now hazy vision. Smooth, uncalloused hands reached around the lieutenant's neck. Tried to, that is. In a panic, Falcon's knee jerked upward, connected with an area once covered by an armored codpiece.

The sharp, rising pain forced Serpentor to budge. Falcon pressed his advantage, used both hands to shove the aberration away. Falcon rose first, attempted a cheap hit as a follow-up, a kick to the side. Serpentor countered the move, grabbed the leg and tripped the lieutenant up.

Bloodlust called for Serpentor to finish this fight; teach this parvenu a lesson. Other voices, calmer ones, cautioned him that his goal was to locate the traitor. A far more important lesson to be delivered there.

"Guards!" he called, stepping on Falcon's body as he headed for the door. "Exterminate the gaggle outside. I'll have other matters to attend to."

Falcon groaned, prayed that _whack_ to his noggin was no concussion, and pulled himself from the floor. Moving far too slowly now, he pursued Serpentor out of the door. Walked in on the three Grenadiers lining up the surgery staff, and the woman he guessed to be the kid's mother, for their execution.

"Please," the woman cried, gripping the steel bars attached to her son's gurney. "I'm begging you!"

"Don't you dare!" yelled Falcon, nailing the closest Grenadier in the back. The other two turned away from their targets, focused on the lieutenant instead.

Falcon didn't feel the machismo call of a one-on-one with these goons. Had no qualms about unholstering his sidearm. Just had to hope he was cogent enough not to nail any of the medical staff, or God forbid, that poor kid asleep in the bed.

SNAKE EYES DIDN'T NEED the heat generated by the B.A.T.'s blowtorch hand to sense the android was stalking him. He appreciated the tip, anyway.

Snake Eyes, still facing his beheaded victim, sparking and spritzing and _ssrzzzkk_ ing away, moved like lightning. Released several rounds of Uzi fire into his stalker. None of the blasts connected with anything critical; the machine continued its approach. A spray of literal fire forced Snake Eyes to dance backwards, to drop his beloved submachine gun.

The ninja took a little jog diagonally, used the momentum for a fantastic leap into the air. He landed ninety degrees to the B.A.T.'s left. A sweep kick sent the android back a foot or two. When it lifted its blowtorch hand for another assault, the B.A.T. discovered it no longer existed. Or, very least, was no longer attached to its arm.

It registered Snake Eyes' Onihashi-crafted stainless steel _katana_ less than a second before the blade violated its chest processors. A gift from the Blind Master, the day he informed the quiet young man there was nothing left to teach him. The day he suggested the introvert reconsider serving his country.

Snake Eyes didn't have the luxury of memory lane strolls. Even as he pulled the _katana_ from the B.A.T.'s chest, he felt the presence of another attacker. Actually, it was a familiar presence. The ninja rolled to avoid the impending bear hug. Repositioned himself, looked up to discover the headless B.A.T. still had some life in him.

The machine lumbered onward, relying on the stubborn non-optical sensors that couldn't admit defeat. Snake Eyes moved to avoid its reach, connecting with a cartwheel kick while pirouetting to its right. The B.A.T. moved faster than Snake Eyes could've predicted, snatching his arm as he executed the move. The ninja was tossed towards the sky like pizza dough. Recovering flawlessly midair, he used the opportunity to clasp his _katana_ with both hands. To drill the blade into the open cavity in the middle of that android's shoulders.

The impact was enough to finally render the B.A.T. inert. Unfortunately, it was also forceful enough to loosen the grenade attached to the android's shoulder holster. The explosive rolled through the snow, bumped up against the arm of the nearby B.A.T., still sporting a hole in its chest.

The machine only possessed another twenty seconds of life. Twenty seconds before its various processors finally realized its electronic base of operations was no more. Plenty of time to grip that pineapple, though. To remove the firing pin and aim it towards the ninja interloper.

Snake Eyes reacted on instinct, swatting away the grenade with his sword. He could be forgiven for not understanding the lay of the strange land. For not realizing he'd flung the explosive directly in the midst of the facility's fuel lines.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

THE SARGE WAS NOT PLEASED.

"Guess you pulled one over on the Sarge, baldie," he exclaimed as he followed Mindbender into a refrigerated supply room.

From behind one of the countless metal shelves, housing heaven only knew what, the doctor attempted his defense. "You don't understand. I'm only doing what I—"

"You're saving your own hide, trying to sneak away once the goin' got rough," answered Slaughter, following the sound of Mindbender's voice. "I know your brand of scaleback, Doc. Just means this beating is gonna be that much sweeter."

The Sarge's eyes, scanning the environment, caught a spot of blood on the vinyl flooring. Looking onward, caught several of them.

"That monster—yes, the one I created—won't stop until I'm dead," spoke Mindbender, his voice betraying an undeniable sincerity. "I've accepted that. But if you could grant me peace, do what you can to buy some time…"

The doctor, half searching the aisles, half evading the Sarge, faced an unwelcome sight as he turned into the next corridor. His face collided against Slaughter's sandstone chest.

"You mean turn away as you sneak off," said the Sarge, lifting Mindbender by the collar. "Let us dumb grunts fight your battle."

Slaughter didn't want to admit it, but there was something in the doctor's eyes. His next words were barely a whisper. "You don't understand. You couldn't. Never realize what that boy on the table means to me."

The Sarge was prepared for his next negation, his next putdown. Until he caught sight of the blood staining Mindbender's shirt, rapidly filling up his right side.

"Mindbender…"

"There you are!" thundered a voice at the door. Busting Mindbender's chops, expressing sympathy for his plight, neither option remained.

Serpentor was here.

THE EASTERN PORTION OF THE HIDDEN BASE suffered the worst of the explosion.

Jinx, positioned on the western wing, felt only the heat of the blast. More evidence she wasn't all bad luck. More evidence she doubted her teammates would recognize.

Ink-black smoke was sneaking into this portion of the facility, this strange futuristic madhouse where glass beakers and plant cultures intermingled with steel walls and electronic contrivances. Jinx spotted a figure in the distance, noticed him franticly typing into a wall-mounted display.

"Of courssse they're going to blow it up. The blasted savages. Can't let them win…not thisss time…"

Jinx watched as the liquid cultures were moved through a conveyor line, then rapidly taken by robotic hands, before being placed on small, automated crafts that resembled golf carts. She rocketed towards the figure studying the wall.

"Cobra Commander! Why'd I expect to find you here?"

THE PERFECT MAN SMILED THROUGH HIS ANGER, making his way through the maze of metal shelving units. Quite a stroke of luck—two of the men he desired dead, conveniently located together.

"Now, the only question—who will stain my knuckles first?"

The Sarge returned Mindbender to the floor. Did so with more care than you'd expect from the man. "Stay where you are, Mindbender. I have something personal to sort out."

The Sarge located Serpentor in no time, opened the brawl with a big right hand. Serpentor was forced to step back; landed a right of his own as the Sarge pressed in with an absence of caution.

As the genetic marvel's fist crashed into Slaughter's lip, an indescribable sensation entered his body. He felt a tingle as familiar as the spring sunshine upon his shoulders, the day he departed New Carthage in 218 BC. As visceral as the pain in his thigh, over three hundred years later during the Siege of Toulon.

He was reliving his first battle with this brash American, the day he awoke in another of Mindbender's labs. A memory he wouldn't possess, were it not programmed into the DNA of this Slaughter buffoon.

"You spacin' out on me, punk?" asked the Sarge, incredulous Serpentor hadn't followed up on that quality smack. No matter. He'd be refusing no gift horses.

Slaughter bulldozed into Serpentor's midsection, forced him against one of the metal shelves. The unit collapsed, sending countless sealed specimen to the floor. A few yards away, Mindbender was slowing his breathing, attempting to regain some calm. His finger raced against the specimen labels, as his lips offered a quiet prayer he'd locate the proper sample in time.

"How odd it is, truly, that we exist as…family, in a sense!" Serpentor had recovered, convinced himself this connection with Slaughter was more of a delightful novelty than an existential threat. He expressed this pleasure by gripping Slaughter's leg, then hammering a fist into his kneecap.

Both on the floor, Serpentor's hand reached for Slaughter's throat. "To think; an Oedipus story for the new era. The lovely face of Jocasta supplanted by the mysterious twisting of a double helix!" The Sarge felt the fingers spreading across his neck. Responded instinctively with a head-butt.

Serpentor called out in pain, but his smirk didn't disappear for long. He looked to the sergeant, as both stood, as if the man were blind for not seeing the truth.

"Your blood, Slaughter…is _my_ blood!" he said with a bizarre sense of pride, Italian leather shoes crunching numerous vials underneath.

The Sarge shrugged. "Wanna taste more of yours, you weirdo?"

"Not necessary!" Serpentor called, using his impressive reach to grip Slaughter's arm. The Sarge was pulled closer, suffered a kick to his midsection. In Serpentor's eyes, a flash of his fantasy could be discerned.

He'd not exist without this boor. The perfect man's only living benefactor, the rest of his "donors" consigned to the history texts. But not this Slaughter. If Serpentor were to truly prove himself, demonstrate his dominance over all of his influences, he had no choice but to end the lout's life.

Serpentor twisted Slaughter around, maneuvered him into a perfect side grapple. Applied the pressure necessary to snap a man's neck.

"Know this…the strength you've given me will be the cause of your demise," Serpentor intoned, his voice filling the room. "Poets will one day write of the irony."

The Sarge resisted, felt his pulse quicken as he realized Serpentor had nailed him good. A thought surfaced, one he attempted to fight off. An image of Mercer. A question if this is how he felt during his final moments.

A muffled curse escaped the Sarge's mouth; only sound he could generate at the moment. Very likely, the last he'd ever make.

So why was Serpentor's grip loosening? Why was the pompous load dropping his arms, dancing backwards? The Sarge caught his breath, took a look behind. Serpentor, his forehead now covered in sweat, rammed into another shelving unit before hitting the floor.

"What'd you do to him?" Slaughter asked Mindbender, standing to Serpentor's left, syringe in hand.

"A chemical agent," the doctor answered, ashen. "A weaponized recreation of viral encephalitis. He'll live…but won't bother…any…any of…"

Mindbender collapsed, grasping his right side. Sarge bent down, realized for the first time just how much blood his adversary had lost.

"Doc…they nailed you as you bugged out, didn't they?"

The doctor's eyes were closed. "Not much longer. You…need to take this." He reached into his left jacket pocket, presented Slaughter with the refrigerated pouch. "Keep it…don't let it…"

Heavy footsteps interrupted his words. Sarge looked up, nodded a greeting to Falcon.

"Got both of 'em tasting the floor, Sarge?"

Slaughter lifted his hand, indicated the lieutenant should cool it with the wisecracks. He turned back to Mindbender, said with sincerity, "If you have something to say before you pass on, I give you my word—I'll listen. Respect your wishes, best I can."

Mindbender had to collect a few more breaths before answering. Eventually, he closed his eyes and whispered, "The envelope I gave you earlier…meant what I said…please, open it…" A sudden thought hit. Drawing upon his last ounce of strength, his eyes briefly flashed as he gripped Slaughter's arm.

"And let Bobby know…let him know I'm…that his father, he…"

The doctor spoke no more words.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

THE SURGICAL STAFF WAS GRATEFUL for Lt. Falcon's brave actions, saving them from Serpentor's overzealous Grenadiers. The security team assigned to this M.A.R.S. station, however, lacked that sense of appreciation.

"Halt!" shouted the chief of security, an ex-Royal Marine with a spine of steel. Behind him stood four armed guards.

The Sarge was leading the way, with Falcon and Diane Cooper directing young Bobby's gurney. He'd opened Mindbender's envelope, studied the doctor's instructions and was doing his best to honor them. Even if they seemed like nonsense.

"We don't have time for this," he groused, rushing the security chief. One punch sent the guard to the floor; the Sarge's bestial growl was enough to scare the rest of the contingent away.

The security chief stood, unaware of his bloody nose. "Think I'm goin' down like some chump, eh?"

Slaughter lifted his fists; regretted circumstances would prevent him from enjoying this one.

"Everyone, cease this nonsense!" commanded the bass-rich voice from the intercom.

The Sarge didn't take his eyes off his next victim. "I don't know where you are, Destro, but if you think I'm stopping for—"

He halted his sentence when he saw the chief's face. Realized the punk had already dropped his dukes. Slaughter turned around; witnessed a sight he'd never beheld before.

The majestic Destro, his noble gait inhibited. A humble wooden cane propped beneath his arm. A wound, still bleeding red, blemishing his side.

The Joes' most devious opponent, humbled. Were it not for the aid of a special someone, it's likely he would've bled to death in his chambers. Destro was stingy with his gratitude, however. The woman had been responsible for most of this madness, truthfully.

They bickered, as he exited the base. If she knew what he now planned, he could only imagine the bile she'd spew.

"Pax, Sergeant," said Destro. Behind him, his personal guard of Iron Grenadiers. "We are, at this moment, not enemies."

"Our concern right now is this kid and his mother," warned Falcon. "If you're thinkin' of stopping us, then—"

"Nothing of the sort," protested Destro, waving his hand, wincing at the pain generated by the action. "Follow me."

Slaughter didn't immediately obey the command, but after a pause, and a resigned sigh, he motioned for Falcon and Mrs. Cooper to follow.

"Ma'am, I don't want you to worry," Falcon said to Mrs. Cooper, overwhelmed to the point of speechlessness over the day's events. "We're not going to let any of these goons keep us from helping your son."

"Your chivalry is comically excessive, Lieutenant," said Destro, not turning back. "I have no desire to harm Mrs. Cooper or her boy."

He'd never say the words aloud, but the armament magnate had been struggling with a series of regrets in recent hours. Been forced to recognize some boundaries must be respected, that some internal doubts can't be quieted.

The long game had been tantalizing. Raising Serpentor again, conditioning him for modern times, exploiting his best qualities in a less ostentatious way. Mindbender was essential to the scheme, but Destro overplayed his hand. In his hubris, the mogul had crossed boundaries that should never be violated.

He was, today, paying his penance.

At the room designated "Relativity, Thermodynamics, and Cosmology," Destro signaled for the assembled to stop. "Here. I trust the doctor's instructions were to locate this room?"

Destro didn't await Slaughter's answer; typed in the proper numbers into the punch button lock, then ushered the group inside. "Ho-lee," spoke Falcon, dumbfounded.

"Dr. Renault's finest invention," spoke Destro, presenting the device with his free hand, "recreated by my more than competent crew of technical geniuses."

The metallic chassis stood five feet high. Inside, a rack-mount form factor with countless electronic devices, all blinking primary colors, rattling off curious LCD codes. Attached to the center of the chassis, a cobalt barrel, shaped like a standard-issue greenshirt rifle.

"And who the heck is Dr. Renault?" asked Falcon, taking his eyes off the contraption to check on Bobby.

"Ah. I suppose your superiors would've kept that mission classified," answered Destro, painfully proud of himself. He caught the frustrated look on Slaughter's face and lifted his hand as an apology. "The doctor instructed you to trigger the device, to enter this parallel world, did he not?" Destro asked, returning to the critical business at hand. "To provide his alternate self with the tools necessary to save his son?"

"This is insane," Diane spoke, horrified, barely audible.

"Might be," responded the Sarge, placing a concerned hand on her shoulder. "But I think it's the only shot your boy has."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

STORM SHADOW CONTEMPLATED THE FACE BELOW HIM.

He knew it was absurd; this idea that he had a twin, one with an American accent, one somehow associated with the mongrels of G. I. Joe. The familiar face before him, writhing in pain, anticipating the final blow…this had to be some act of Western deception. Cobra had experimented with cloning technology in the past, defying fundamentals of nature, making the ninja quite uncomfortable, were he to be honest. It wasn't unreasonable to assume his hated enemies would be involved in similar tricks.

"Keone…" the stranger who wasn't a stranger barely managed to speak. "Doesn't have to…end like…"

The explosion interrupted the man's words, forced Storm Shadow's attention elsewhere. Detonation had already taken a third of the base. The Joes had managed to locate the fuel lines, the dishonorable scum. And his commander was still inside, in the path of the blaze.

He considered the man, this alleged "brother," for only a heartbeat. Left his battered body in the snow. The ninja had higher priorities at the moment.

THE COMMANDER COULD ONLY lift a hand in defense as the red blur approached, sliced a clean cut diagonally across the emblem adorning his chest.

The fabric wasn't thick enough to protect his tight, pink skin; a syrupy crimson soon mingled with his beloved Cobra insignia. The Commander couldn't appreciate the show of colors, given the increasing levels of smoke filling the space.

He squealed in pain; rarely could one of these plebeians touch his skin. Storm Shadow always made sure of that. "Stop! Please, I sssurrender!"

Jinx's eyebrow lifted skeptically, although her attack was halted. Furtively, the Commander felt the wall behind him, searched for the proper key.

"Okay, whatever it is you're doing here, it's over," Jinx proclaimed, taking the Commander by the closest arm. She snatched him to her, just as his finger pressed in the proper button. He only laughed, as the robotic hands at the end of the nearest conveyor belt whirled in a new direction. Before Jinx could comprehend, she felt the metal pincers pulling her away, nearly crushing both of her wrists.

The Commander savored a flash of light, illuminating a clear path to his remaining specimens. He allowed the pincers to focus on their new task; scooped up the rest of the cultures and raced to the exit.

Jinx's calculations weren't wrong; only seconds remained before both of her wrists would be pulverized. Jerking her left wrist, allowing it to snap, was cold pragmatism. Shouting out the pain, she wriggled the limp hand free. Counting off the seconds before the other wrist would go, would receive a far nastier break under the pincer's grip, she moved the limp hand towards the wall's system array.

Smoke from the fire all but eliminated her vision. Lucky for her (and there's that word again), an irascible vet had bestowed his wisdom upon her years earlier. Enabled her to "see" with her four other senses. To divine the last key pressed by her reptilian opponent and turn the damnable machine _off_.

"Kimi!" she heard a voice cry, just as the conveyer line hummed to a stop. She pressed her wounded wrist against her chest while peering through the smoke; in seconds she discerned the limping presence of Tomisaburo nearby.

"Tommy, you're hurt," she said, before registering the stance of Snake Eyes by his side. Breathing a sigh of relief that Tommy wasn't alone in this, Jinx maneuvered through the increasing mess of fallen light fixtures and broken glass.

"We need to get out of here," she advised her companions.

Tomisaburo grabbed at her shoulder. "No. Keone ran in here. We can't leave without him."

Jinx was prepared to argue. Ready to cite the scant minutes left before smoke inhalation, if not the fire itself, did them in.

Realized presenting an argument was pointless, also. That Tommy was just as bullheaded and determined as any Joe.

STORM SHADOW FOUGHT A PATH THROUGH THE SMOKE, eventually entered the facility's adjacent aircraft hangar. Flames had spread faster than he could've imagined; were already hungrily consuming the hangar's support structure.

"I thought you'd be in here," the ninja spoke to his commander, busy loading temperature-controlled cases into the Transport Copter. "Did you procure all of the specimens?"

"Storm Shadow!" Cobra Commander adjusted himself, returned to the urgent work. "Yes, it'sss all taken care of," he said, unloading a stainless steel case off a cart and into the helicopter.

Another explosion thundered in the background. Storm Shadow stepped closer, relied on the headlights of the running copter to fight against the smoke. Just enough illumination for a nauseating realization to hit his stomach.

Even the copter's co-pilot seat had been packed tight with the steel cases.

Lingering by the pilot's door, Cobra Commander attempted an apology. "The cargo aircraft was damaged in the explosions; we have to rely on the Transssport. We're, ah, already pushing past weight capacity." His fingers tumbled awkwardly into each other. "Storm Shadow, you have to realize—"

More wreckage hit the ground, landing even closer. The dumbfounded Storm Shadow looked back; realized the hallway leading to the hangar had just been choked with debris.

He turned again to his Commander. Began a slow but determined approach. "My years of loyalty…the sacrifice!" The rancor, the sense of betrayal, was entering his voice. "To you, they mean nothing, don't they?"

The Commander reached for his treasured "black venom" pistol. As a heavy hand gripped the sidearm's handle, he spoke, "You're being absurd, ninja. Thisss complex will be ravaged soon. I can't jeopardize the mission."

The ninja's stride continued. His arms moved much faster, drawing his sword from the scabbard on his back.

"Storm Shadow, I'm _not_ leaving without these spores," his commander told him, the tone indicating a simultaneous regret and resolve.

The ninja's intense eyes, Cobra Commander now realized, were trained on the pistol. "You dare threaten me?" The fire in his eyes somehow burned even brighter. "To betray your most loyal ally?"

The Commander studied the glare. Silent calculations were performed. His shoulders eased, telegraphing a new stance. "My friend…this is absurd." The pistol returned to his side. "We are not enemies. Yesss, come aboard," he added after a moment's pause. "We'll find a resolution to this."

Storm Shadow wanted to believe the words, even if knowledge of the man justified all skepticism. Fingers still gripped to the hilt of his sword, he approached the steps of the pilot's door.

"I realize you're unlikely to believe this, ninja, but I do value your loyalty…" the Commander told his bodyguard, clasping his arm in friendship. Through the haze of smoke, fire, and deafening eruptions, a shot rang out.

The bullet penetrated Storm Shadow's chest, lodged itself only an inch from his heart.

"And I carry sssome…regret for this unpleasantness." The Commander observed Storm Shadow fall from the steps. Looked into the growing black and caught the faintest image of the crimson cross that adorned the helmet of an even more loyal ally. The Battle Android Trooper who'd been assisting him in loading the copter. The one, smoke still curling from his holstered weapon, arriving now with the final case of specimens.

The Commander accepted the steel case, dismissed the android. The copter truly was overloaded. Piloting the craft alone made the Commander slightly uneasy, yet he accepted the nervousness as an insignificant sacrifice.

He offered a final farewell as the door closed. "Perhaps we'll meet in another life, Keone," he said, almost musically.

The ninja, clinging to a flicker of consciousness, didn't know if that final word was spoken as a taunt.

PART VIII: … IS ALL THAT YOU CAN'T SAY _April 2, 1981_

YOU'LL CALL IT THE COBRA CITADEL. Just enough alliteration, with only a hint of melodrama. A perfect base of operations for this army you're building.

And, yes, that is the proper term.

Before the days of eternal cold, your ancestors established this home. The pink-skins who were once covered in fur, the ones who pollute this land today, now call it Trans-Carpathia. This mountainous region resides in an area the humans still cannot traverse. You'll have to address that; clear out more land, establish additional paths for entry.

More pearls and rubies to spend, you tell yourself while stalking the halls. One day, you just might have to return home. Ask for more resources, more aid in accomplishing your mission. The thought is humiliating; you push it from your mind.

You come across three of your men, clad in their new uniforms. They're clustered around a printout, behaving more like children than the hardened soldiers you'll require.

"What's this?" you ask.

They all stiffen. You can tell the lead "blueshirt" is tempted to hide the printout behind his back, before common sense invades.

"Just, ah, reviewing surveillance info for this next op, sir."

You remove the printout from his hand. It's a blown-up photograph of a young woman. Hair as dark as the purest heart, a bone structure the pink-skins of this land would view as exquisite. "Oh, really?"

Your lackey fumbles for the words. "She's working with the weapons manufacturer you've queried, sir. Intel has a pretty, uh, extensive file on her."

You return the photo to the underling. "Apparently ssso. Given how you lads are reacting, perhaps you might consider offering her the recruitment spiel?"

They all mumble and look away like embarrassed boys. You tire of this exercise in degradation, excuse yourself. Try to dismiss the woman's face from your thoughts.

Funny, though. How a woman so attractive, at least within the conventional beauty standards, hides behind those glasses. Unsightly frames, really. Not the kind you'd catch on any of the movie stars.

Only a few seconds pass before Keone emerges from the computer room; has that look in his eye. "Commander! I must speak to you!"

Amazing to behold what the ancient therapies have accomplished. You'd never guess Keone had been near-death years earlier. That, merely three weeks after escaping a months-long sleep, he'd be as lethal as ever. You think of the doubts expressed before his first mission back…how the embarrassment and joy intermingled as you witnessed him express his talents in Lạng Sơn. That peculiar sound of a neck snapping…so distinctly _Keone_.

"Keone, isss this truly so important?"

He gestures for you to follow. Normally, he'd not be so presumptuous. You forgive your subordinate, walk behind as he reaches the computer console.

"I suspected as much…but only now have the evidence. Look! Six years ago, he applied for a marriage license. Signed his name _after_ he supposedly died in the jungle!"

"Keone, is this the best use of our resourcesss?" you ask.

His eyes grow wilder. "Tomisaburo is _alive,_ Commander! The final blood link in the chain I vowed to break for you!"

You place your hand on his back, offer reassuring words. "Keone, as much as I appreciate the gesture, you must understand that times have changed. Certain prioritiesss have shifted…"

Keone's body grows less rigid. He gives you a look of shock and disappointment. "My vow…"

A few more pats on the back, and you have him redirected towards the hallway. "Follow me, Keone. I believe there'sss unfinished business in the medical bay."

He considers resisting, but stops himself. Minutes later, you've excused the skeleton crew of doctors and nurses. Keone obeys your orders and sits upon the examination table.

You reach, not for the cabinet, but for the ampoule in your breast pocket. Keone does require treatment; just not the kind this "humanity" has developed.

"Stay still," you admonish, removing the cap. The long-nosed weevil scurries to the edge of the vial. With one hand pressed against the side of Keone's neck, you use the other to _tap tap_ that weevil where he belongs.

The insect drops into Keone's ear canal. Maybe two seconds pass before it reaches the drum, causing Keone to shriek with pain.

He drops to the floor, just juddering around like an animal in the throes of an excruciating death. And, you suppose, it is some kind of demise.

It is a mercy. You're confident in this. The young man has already proven himself. To be honest, you'd forgotten about the Arashikage mess ages ago.

No need for him to carry on this ridiculous blood feud. To have some lingering business mocking him, distracting him from the more important duties of the day. That Keone—if he didn't have this entomological motivation, it's likely he'd never let the whole thing go.

Eventually, he pulls himself off the floor. After a few deep breaths, his heartbeat has returned to an acceptable rate. The eyes have lost something, true, but you sense your companion still resides inside.

"Keone, do you remember our previous conversssation?" you ask.

He searches. Realizes he cannot answer. "I do not. Is…is there something you require?"

You reach for his hood, tug it over his stone face. "I'd like to know how you feel about a Tomisaburo Arashikage."

"I have no feelings," he states, looking forward.

"Excellent. And another thing," you announce, escorting him from the medical bay. "This home symbolizes a new chapter in our ssstory. We'll now embrace an aesthetic befitting our grand designs." He nods an approval. "Henceforth, Keone, I must ask you to abandon your…remarkably _bland_ moniker."

He stops, turns to his commander. "And what name do you suggest?"

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

INTENSE HEAT, intense cold.

Sensations went back and forth. Bone-chilling cold. That's what Keone was experiencing now. His shirt had been removed, some attempt at emergency care was being attempted.

He thought he heard some shouting. Familiar voices. Debate over removing the bullet; if too much blood had already been lost, if they should just accept the inevitable.

Familiar voices, yes. He was only now appreciating how familiar.

"Tomisaburo," a feeble voice whispered. Keone realized it was his own.

"Keone," spoke a blur he hoped to be his brother. "Don't speak. Don't strain yourself."

Another voice, one he feels a haunting connection to, released a sneering laugh. "If you only knew what we went through to rescue your sorry—"

"Kimi! Not now."

He felt a hand grip his tight. The pulses meeting, beating in time. Words were spoken. Consciousness flooded in and out, making an exact transcription impossible.

But words were spoken. Not words of forgiveness; even the flickering light left in Keone's body knows his sins are too great. But there are words of peace. Of some form of understanding. Or a willingness, at least, to understand. To grant him that mercy, and no more.

And, in that snow, a monster in white stained his surroundings red. His feeble heart beat its last, and three warriors, a family connected by blood and honor, attempted to find something resembling peace.

It would not be easy.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

THE SPORES WEREN'T DAMAGED in the crash. Those steel cases shielded their contents beautifully. He could console himself with that much, at least.

Now, how the Russians would react to the seemingly alien substances, when exactly he could get in touch with his contact in Moscow, that remained unknown. Unknown, and infuriating. Bad enough his pilot skills were less than he'd estimated.

No, he wouldn't be blaming himself for that. The Transport Copter ran out of fuel—ironically, right above an oil-producing town in northern Sakhalin—a fate that could befall any airman. Not as if he had the time to properly check such matters before takeoff.

Like most things, this could be laid at the feet of the exasperating Joe team. If they hadn't tracked him to Japan—hadn't set his entire facility ablaze, severely damaging the cargo craft, making such a horrid mess—none of this would've happened.

The Podunk local officials made a show of his unmasking. The great Cobra Commander, brought to his knees here in our fine village—the name of which his twisted tongue could never pronounce, of course. Truthfully, there was an element of carnival show in the event. He looked so… _normal_. Just like reports from the Western media had claimed; the image of the All-American Boy.

"Patienccce," he hissed to himself, alone in his prison cell. The Commander had faced setbacks before. Had literally lost his humanity, only a year earlier. No reason to give in to despair, he told himself.

Sound of heavy boots abruptly entered the hall. Followed by a much softer gait. Dress shoes, with a modest heel he speculated. Fifteen seconds later, he'd been proven right.

"Deputy Chairman Bulganin! So nice to sssee you," greeted the serpent through the bars.

Bulganin, approaching sixty, with pale dry skin and fatigued eyes, did not return the prisoner's handshake. Instead, he motioned for the accompanying guard to leave. The young man obeyed.

The deputy chairman opened the cell door, remained standing as he requested the prisoner take a seat on the cot.

"I assume we're moving past the pleasantries?" The prisoner fanned the air playfully. "I have no objections. I'd rather address the important issuesss."

"Cobra Commander," Bulganin began, maintaining that rigid posture. "You are a wanted terrorist in most of the world. And the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics does not, in any way, condone your actions."

"Oh, naturally. But the matter we discussed earlier…"

"About my family. My position within the Republic. The implications were quite clear."

"I offered an _exchange_ for information mossst valuable to your people. Understand, no true malice was intended—"

"All for this precious cargo of yours. These 'carry-ons' you're so adamant reach the stars within the next few days."

"Yes, and it's quite important that the cargo confiscated by thessse…"—he stopped himself, adjusted his tenor—"fine local officials is immediately remanded to my custody."

A playful glint appeared in Deputy Chairman Bulganin's once-tired eyes. "No, Cobra Commander. That won't be happening."

Somewhere in those two sentences, his accent had shifted. Grown less austere; more urbane and plummy. The Commander barely registered the shift, his attention laser-focused on his cargo.

"Are you toying with me, Bulganin?" he asked, indignant. The Commander stood, grabbed the buffoon by his lapels. "I don't think you know who you're _dealing with_."

Bulganin didn't repress his laughter for long. "Nor do you, chum."

The Commander's befuddlement lasted only a few seconds. He spoke the words as soon as the realization hit. Spoke them with palpable disgust. " _Matthew Burke._ "

"Give the man a prize," answered the gent wearing a polymer mask and fat suit. The Commander's hands were swiped away. "Now, do I have to spell this all out for you?"

"Burke, what have you done—?"

"With those spores you were sneaking into the country?" asked Burke, returning the prisoner to his cot. "I bet the Reds would love to study them. Too bad there's been a mix-up with the x-ray machines."

The Commander felt his heart heading for his shoes. "Burke, you posturing pockmark! Don't you dare tell me you—"

"Fried them all with radiation? Yes, sorry about that, ol' bean, but Deputy Chairman Bulganin was quite thorough when dealing with the local authorities. Made sure every culture was removed from its case, and exposed to a comprehensive… _twenty_ or so trips through the scanning devices."

The Commander turned, punched the wall, shrieked out his anger and frustration. "It'sss not fair! I was so close! So close!"

Mid-tantrum, the Commander felt a tug on his undershirt. Looked around and realized Burke had finished his taunts. That there was something more important than this game.

"Now, Commander, there's a lingering thread that must be dealt with," he spoke in a taut voice. "No deals, no games. Right now, less than a dozen people even know you're here. If you disappeared…well, I'm confident they could keep a secret."

Through the mask, the Commander attempted to discern Burke's eyes. Determine if the cool secret agent was truly capable of his dirty threat. In due course, he spoke. "And what do you want from me, Burke?"

"I want your most trusted man, Commander." Burke pulled him closer, forced him to smell that three-martini lunch. "That killer who sticks to you like a barnacle. I want Storm Shadow."

Matthew Burke, leading agent within Her Majesty's most valued intelligence agency, did not appreciate the prisoner's laughter.

AN HOUR LATER, the man in Deputy Chairman Bulganin's clothes had excused the young constables from their office. A call was made to A.U.N.T.I.E. via the revolutionary communication tech wired into Burke's gold Rolex.

"No, blast it…he swears the ninja's dead. And I'm starting to believe he's not lying."

The Commander was handcuffed to the table, drawing a measure of entertainment from the spectacle. Yes, his most significant plan of all had been foiled, his years of scheming all for naught. His opportunity to prove his worth to his superiors, to show how wrong they'd been about him evaporating in an anticlimactic flash of radiation.

But, still, the embarrassed tenor in Burke's voice, having to explain to his precious "aunt" how they wouldn't be getting their revenge on Keone…that was rather amusing, he couldn't deny.

The Commander exhaled, reflected on the previous days. Without realizing it, his attention had been drawn to the wall-mounted television above the corner filing cabinets. Soviet TV— All Union Programme—running footage of a fast food restaurant. The first of its kind, opening in Moscow, eliciting an excitement uncommon in the gray lives of its residents.

The plebeians waited in the line for eight hours for a taste of this American decadence. State-run media only allowed restrained reactions, a dejected sentiment that an aspect of the West had invaded their home, but the faces of the customers could not conceal the truth. This was not a monthly ration of lard or bread—this was the salty taste of a forbidden world, of a future denied.

How long had it been since his own visit? Was it almost a decade now?

Somewhere in the Commander's black heart, he felt a camaraderie with those in line. A sympathy for those who wanted more, who valued innovation and bold ideas. And, somehow, the loss of those spores didn't seem to ache so badly.

What exactly was he attempting to rebuild, anyway?

Who did he think he needed to prove himself to? What did it matter?

"Contemplating the secrets of the universe over there?" asked Burke, snapping his fingers under the Commander's nose. "Up. I've been ordered to take you home."

The word caused the prisoner to chuckle. Burke didn't appreciate it. " _My_ home, I meant. Lord only knows what you crawled out of."

The handcuffs were fastened behind the Commander's back. He said nothing as Burke escorted him out of the door, into the cold. A driver was waiting, one hand on the wheel.

Burke secured the Commander in the backseat. "Greetings, luv," he spoke while opening the passenger side door, taking his seat. He turned to the driver while reaching for his safety belt; grabbed his piece immediately when their eyes connected. "You're not Sophia!"

"Observant," was her only reply. She squeezed the trigger of the electroshock gun seated in her lap, firing two darts into Burke's abdomen. The fat suit absorbed only a portion of the shock. Sophia's sinister replacement had no problem shoving Burke's juddering body out of the vehicle.

The nondescript sedan sped away. The driver turned to the dumbstruck Commander, flashed a deadly grin.

"How _do_ you get into these predicaments, Commander?" asked a familiar voice with a scolding tone. "Crashing a transport helicopter in this frozen wasteland. It would have never happened, if you'd only called your best pilot…"

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

IT SMELLED OF WARM WALNUT BROWNIES.

Ana recognized the scent, the smell that so often welcomed her when entering the Kristofer home. It gave her some comfort, to know Jocelyn was being taken care of. That, even if her life had been so severely disrupted, that Jocelyn could still cling to some vestiges of the past.

They were seated in Jocelyn's new kitchen. Her right hand had just reached out to embrace Ana's.

"I do remember you, Ana. How could I forget?" Jocelyn said to her. Two plainclothes agents were lingering in the hallway, pretending they weren't eavesdropping, mentally documenting every word of this conversation. Likely the most boring assignment either would experience. Agents Pasko and Martens were committed to their work, however. Determined to keep this anonymous woman safe, here in her anonymous home in this anonymous rural community.

"After you visited me at Christmas, I spent a day or two thinking it over. Realized you were the Cisarovnas' little girl. Just couldn't place you at the moment."

Ana gave an empathetic nod. "Understandable. Mrs. Kristofer, there's a reason you didn't recognize me." She couldn't maintain eye contact. "There's a reason why I left town and never came back."

"I think I can guess, sweetheart. Losing Colin…we all had to deal with the pain in our own way. I couldn't blame you for moving somewhere else, starting over."

"I'm afraid I did more than that, Mrs. Kristofer."

Jocelyn didn't seem to register this response. Her thoughts were on warmer days, of memories she'd give anything to relive. "You meant the whole world to him, you know that, don't you? I never told you this…even if you had stayed in town, I don't know if I ever could…"

Ana's face couldn't mask her surprise. _She_ was supposed to be the one revealing secrets today. "I'm sorry?"

"Cleaning out his room, on the top of his bureau, I found a receipt." After so many years of keeping the secret, Jocelyn seemed quite proud to be telling it today. "He'd put it up on layaway at the jeweler's. Only had $200 for the deposit."

"Mrs. Kristofer, you don't mean…"

Jocelyn patted Ana's hand. "Five carat, gold diamond cluster ring. Don't know when he could've paid it off, but I can promise you he'd work like a man possessed to do so." A laugh Jocelyn didn't see coming escaped. "And however he decided to propose, I'm sure it would've been quite the show."

Ana thought of her family's wealth. Of Colin's insecurities. The issues that seemed so frivolous now, even as they preoccupied the couple in their youth. "Ma'am, I never knew. I'm…I'm not even certain what to say."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I interrupted you. What was it you were going to tell me?"

Ana again looked into Jocelyn's kind eyes. Saw the pain the woman was still trying so hard to mask. She questioned if it would be possible to spare her one more heartache.

"Mrs. Kristofer, I'd only like to ask a favor of you."

"You can call me Jocelyn, child, and I'd be happy to help however I can."

A pause. A gathering of her strength. "You're going to be hearing a lot of things in the coming days," Ana said as the breath escaped her. "Going to be hearing the truth about Colin. He's going to be exonerated, ma'am. I can promise you of that."

"Ana, are you sure?"

"Absolutely," she responded, back into those kind topaz eyes. "But you also need to know that…even though your son's totally innocent…some of these details will be unpleasant. I don't know if you even want to hear them." The first tear fell. "And, I'm ashamed to admit, that I played no small role in this affair."

"Ana…what do you mean?"

"Mrs. Kristofer…Jocelyn…" Ana turned away; couldn't bear to face Jocelyn any longer. Hands cupping her face, Ana continued. "I was going to ask that you not hate me, after you hear what I have to say. But I realize now, I have no right to do that. I could never expect you to forgive, not after what I…of course you'll hate me."

Jocelyn stood from her chair, walked to Ana's side of the table. She wrapped her arms around Ana's shoulder, embraced her. Spoke in a tone Colin would've heard more than once, the times he found himself in trouble.

"Child, I gave up on hate long ago."

PART IX: EPILOGUE [ONE YEAR LATER]CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

THE SARGE hadn't thought of Rev. Taylor in years. Could barely remember the man's face.

What he'd never forget is the controversy the young preacher kicked up, once it became known he didn't subscribe to a strictly literal translation of the Old Testament. Rev. Taylor thought he'd "challenge" the congregation, open a discussion during Wednesday Bible Study on the possibility of Jonah and that whale tale being only an allegory. Perhaps an old parable that survived from the days of the ancient Israelites, meant to warn us of the foolishness of rejecting God's call.

The response from the congregants, especially the Sarge's grandfather, was less than kind. Poor Rev. Taylor soon discovered the wrath of an affronted Pastor-Parish Relations Committee. Maybe they appreciated his big, open-minded ideas out in the next town he traveled to.

Yeah, the Sarge had to think of poor Rev. Taylor today…and make a note to tell his grandpappy he'd been right all along. Because the thought of a whale, or great fish, or leviathan, swallowing a hapless prophet for three days didn't seem so outrageous—now that he was currently in Hour Seven of a stint inside the belly of a mutated worm creature.

Charging at the maggot, blasting full-auto rounds into its gaping maw didn't seem like such a bad strategy at that moment. Suicidal, perhaps, but that'd describe most actions taken out in the field since the day Cobra-La announced itself, declared war on the remains of the planet. The Sarge didn't realize he'd gotten _too_ close until the proverbial lights went out and he received a noseful of what the beast had for breakfast.

To think, when he first landed in this place—this _world_ , not the belly of this worm-creature—it almost had a peaceful sheen to it. Civilization was still in the earliest stages of rebuilding, but there was a feeling that the worst was over. That people were eager to return to their old lives, to leave the fighting behind.

When he discovered the history of this place, of the callous way his friends (and the Sarge's alternate here) had been exterminated by Cobra, he was ready to restart the war. Too bad, as he was told there weren't that many more snakes to stomp. Took most of their own number out in that civil war.

A few days passed before the news set in, but he accepted the peace soon enough. Enjoyed a quiet life with Dr. Cooper and his newly reunited family. Got to spend some time with lunkhead Falcon, get to know him in a context that didn't involve bruised knuckles and napalm. And then, one day, those bug-drone losers just had to pop up on the TV…

He had plenty of time to reflect on the insanity of the past year, swimming in the digestive tract of the serpentine beast ravaging St. Louis. Sadly, the Sarge was too busy sluicing about in the not quite deadly—but still darned painful—stomach acids of this monster, to do anything about it.

"Aw, man," the Sarge howled as a new stench hit his nostrils. "If this is divine intervention, maybe I should've prayed harder."

It was a chemical stink, an unnatural one. The worm was juddering, flinging Slaughter around his stomach lining like a pinball. Eventually, those stomach muscles tightened, had no choice but to release their contents.

The Sarge experienced a repeat view of the creature's digestive tract. Found this one even less enjoyable, awash in the vomitus remains of whatever it was they fed this thing. His body exited the worm's mouth cavity at around fifteen miles an hour. He slid a decent number of feet until a pair of steel-toed combat boots stopped him. Sarge wiped the slime from his eyes, felt his agitation diminish a bit when he saw the men before him.

"Nice to see you again," said Robert, offering a hand up. Behind him, Duggleby, Faria, and "old goat" Therien. The cobbled-together resistance formed by Falcon and the Sarge. Around them, the debris of war, a choking ash. The remains of St. Louis, abandoned by the insect drones, handed over to the skyscraper-sized worms.

The Sarge clasped Robert's hand, offered his thanks. He turned, witnessed the worm flailing uncontrollably, screaming out in agony. He looked back, pointed to Duggleby's "bloop" gun, still smoking. "Your doing?"

Duggleby gestured in Robert's direction. "He came in with the canisters just in time. Though I guess his old man is the real MVP."

Robert nodded. "Dad sends his regards. Whipped up this chemical agent back at the base. We've been calling it 'worm food,' but Faria doesn't think it's much of a joke."

" _Humans_ are worm food, once we croak," Faria protested. "Calling the anti-worm gases that doesn't make—"

"It's _irony_ ," interrupted Robert. "Very sophisticated humor."

The latest pained shriek interrupted the banter for a moment. The Sarge, wiping his face off with the towel offered by Therien, watched in awe as the creature's body involuntarily slammed against the abandoned Laclede Gas Building.

"Looks like it causes more than a tummy ache," the Sarge observed.

"Dad's new variety of acetycholine," Robert said with pride. "Interrupts the information being sent by neurotransmitters in the synapses, makes its muscles go haywire. Way I see it, this maggot's only got around twenty seconds to live."

Within fifteen, the worm had collapsed into the remains of the Laclede Gas Building. Laclede's gas-powered generators released a series of unholy explosions, providing the beast with a funeral pyre worthy of its stature.

"Dang, better than Independence Day," Therien said with awe, heat from the blasts burning away his wispy arm hairs.

"Wonder if we'll ever have one of those again," the Sarge spoke, wiping malodourous goo from his cherished sunglasses. "Some days, I'm feeling less than optimistic."

Robert slapped the Sarge's back. "Well, put those thoughts aside. On the way here, the news came in. The news we've been waiting for…"

The glasses were still in the Sarge's hand. Gave Robert and the others a rare view of the Sarge's naked expression. Of the mix of joy and disbelief as he faintly whispered, "You don't mean…"

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

ANA WASN'T AWARE of the Friendship Motor Inn's history with covert government operations. Wasn't aware that, a year earlier, Cobra Commander himself had been rented a room and granted a clandestine meeting with his attorney.

She only knew the motor lodge as her new home. The fifth in the past twelve months. The former Baroness had precious little to provide in terms of intel; the majority of her dirt already offered during her first surrender, when she'd been placed in deep cover. The rest of the secrets, what she hadn't been programmed to offer up the first time, were largely out of date.

Still, a lawyer had successfully argued her previous immunity agreement stood. Fearful of the potential chaos generated by a public trial, and the danger to whatever facility might house the former terrorist, even the hardliners in the Administration saw the wisdom in granting Ana her freedom.

Not that any sane individual would agree with this use of the term. More plastic surgery to disguise her features. A new identity adopted every few months, a new town to call home. She was in-between locales at the moment, as the Feds researched her latest adopted hometown.

The woman in black had spent the past twelve months piecing all of this together. A series of errant rumors, lips loosened by alcohol, bribed secretaries, and seduced section chiefs granted her the information she so desired.

The latest disguise, a humble room service maid, was likely her least favorite. She preferred the gowns of the Washington social scene. Or the naughtier gear exhibited later those nights, behind closed doors.

She passed two of the Joes while pushing her janitorial cart down the hall. How shocking, that they wouldn't have noticed her. The woman slipped on a disposable cleaning mask, unscrewed the lid of what appeared to be a powdered cleanser. Gas wafted from the open container, gave both Rock 'n Roll and Roadblock instant naptimes.

The woman in black counted off the numbered doors, released a soft snort when she reached the proper one. Corrosive acid had the door handle on the floor in less than a minute. She stepped into the room, saw the face that should've been so familiar on the bed, reacting in shock to her entrance.

"No, my dear. No need for alarm," she told Ana.

The young woman leapt from the bed, took an offensive stance. "Who are you?!"

The intruder looked her over. Sized her up quickly; discerned her prey wouldn't be making any moves, regardless of the poses she adopted. The cleaning mask had been removed. The woman in black released a guttural laugh when peeling off the second.

"Dearest Ana, I realize this must be quite the shock…" she said, so proud of the reaction she was eliciting.

Ana could barely form the first syllable. Staring back at the face she'd abandoned months earlier.

"How?" she questioned, mouthing the word more than truly speaking it.

The woman stepped closer. Ana's body somehow grew even more rigid. "Ana, there is more to this world than you could possibly imagine. And I suspect several of your newfound friends would understand my implication." The woman was now only a whisker away from Ana's quavering face. "By the way, you haven't come across the one known as Steeler yet, have you?"

"I don't know…who you are…" Ana had to close her eyes, discover her inner resolve before continuing. "But you have to leave… _now._ "

The proclamation only elicited another laugh from the woman, now removing her maid uniform. Beneath, skintight leather, the black expression of unspeakable fantasies, was covering her perfect form. In the middle of her chest, a sigil that caused Ana's every cell to chill.

"Oh, precious Ana," teased the woman. "If only you knew how far I've traveled to be here. How this act will bring me both joy and, I suspect, no small measure of regret."

Ana watched, frozen, as her doppelganger slipped open the sheath on her right thigh. She recognized the dagger that emerged. Knew it intimately. The memories sickened her; even more than the rushing thoughts, warning her of what was next.

"But, certain acts of dominance are sometimes necessary." She allowed the blade to trace the soft edges of Ana's face. "A lesson I learned many years ago, from quite the wise man."

Lips still trembling, Ana was preparing to deliver one final threat. If the woman—whoever on this planet she could possibly be—didn't respond, Ana would have to strike back. Have to calm this mental chaos and discern the most effective means of disarming this stranger, of wresting the blade from her and forcing her body to the ground.

But no sound emerged. And if she couldn't find the strength to open her lips, then what hope did she have to defend herself? Ana thought of the previous year, of the choices that had brought her here. And she cursed herself for her weakness. For ever allowing herself to be this vulnerable.

The blade navigated south of her face. Began to tease the contours of her neck. "That's it, dearest. Just stay…relatively still."

The sound of the telephone's ring caused Ana to jump. She lifted her hand to check, to ensure she hadn't grazed the edge of the blade. She counted herself lucky.

Irritated, the woman in black eyed the phone for what felt like an eternity. Realizing the irksome thing wouldn't be going silent, she walked five disdainful steps. One eye kept on Ana at all times.

"Hello?" she growled. "Oh…"

She couldn't comprehend every word, but Ana was able to overhear just enough. Was able to recognize the baritone on the other end, vibrating through the cables. Ana doubted she could ever forget that voice. She was more than familiar with her former love's tone. The disappointment, the barely restrained frustration.

Her doppelganger was chastised for her stupidity and recklessness. Informed to drop this petty vendetta, to recognize the difference between a true threat and pointless distraction.

The conversation ended with a click and the indifferent hum of the dial-tone. The woman in black seemed to pout for a moment, before returning the receiver and again approaching her prey.

Another smile. This one, noticeably forced. "Next time, my dearest."

With that, she was gone.

CHAPTER FIFTY

"PRINCELY OFFER FROM THE GENERAL. Very few ever receive that call, Tommy."

Tommy didn't answer at first. Was more concerned with lining up the perfect shot. At the precise moment, Tommy released the string of his _hankyū_. The arrow sailed at a remarkable speed, penetrating the crimson faceplate of the encroaching Battle Android Trooper.

Wasn't how he was expecting to spend this weekend. But when you have close bonds to the G. I. Joe team, and they've got a few confiscated android troopers to use as practice dummies…

"I'd have to reenlist," he finally replied, leaping from the supply building's roof. Three more B.A.T.s emerged to face him.

Jinx didn't turn to face her one-time "uncle." Was more concerned with the android presently gripping her legs, attempting to bring her down to the concrete. "We have competitive benefits, now. Hippies don't hassle us at airports anymore."

Tommy didn't react to the joke. Had his _sai_ out; was carving up one of the B.A.T.'s chest panels, unleashing a fearsome collage of electric sparks. "Kimi, you realize I'm older than you punks, right?"

"You're the same age as ol' Snakes," said Jinx, using her sword to sever the B.A.T.'s clingy hand. "He gets around just fine, old man."

"Then, there's Keiko. What's she going to say?" asked Tommy, twirling the injured B.A.T., using it as a cudgel against its allies.

"I bet she wants you out of the house." Jinx admired the remains of her opponent. Its bottom half consumed by a grenade blast, its right hand sliced away, yet it refused to quit. Using its left hand for balance, the B.A.T. thrusted upward, aiming that sparking stump of an arm at Jinx's face. "C'mon, Tommy. You really want to try and keep another restaurant or junk shop open?"

Tommy's opponents were on the ground, fumbling for balance. He opted for a more modern means of ending their threat…the Uzi he'd been allowed to borrow from the artillery closet. An extravagance his local firing range couldn't compete with. A spray of fire rendered the androids inert.

He kicked away a few B.A.T. heads for good measure. Then, turned to Jinx, currently in the process of slicing through a stubborn android's neck. "The life Keiko and I had to live…didn't lend itself to developing job opportunities. Not many opportunities, period."

The final ambulatory portions of the B.A.T. were severed by Jinx's _katana_. She looked up to see Tommy not even five feet away. She wiped off her moist brow, tried to hide her irritation over the incident. Didn't want Tommy to know just how much this tin can had made her sweat.

"Well, those days are done. And you've got an offer in front of you that'd make any self-respecting grunt green with envy."

She thought of an early training session out here by the loading bay, when she gave Snake Eyes the shock of his life.

Why couldn't "Uncle" Tommy have witnessed _that_ instead?

It was her idea. Inviting him to homebase. Letting him hear that offer in person. Granting him the kind of training session no other civilian could dream of.

Tommy soaked in his surroundings. A lot of steel, a lot of gray, not much consideration for anything besides cold efficiency. He admired the lack of pretense; couldn't fight off memories of his days serving his adopted homeland.

The chirp of Jinx's transceiver invaded the quiet. Jinx stepped to her duffel bag, pulled the thing out. The ensuing conversation was one-sided. Brief.

When it was over, Tommy approached Kimi. Asked if everything was okay.

"It's from the general. Says it's urgent."

THE PRIVATE MEETING in General Hawk's office had begun an hour earlier. He unloaded quite the story.

It elicited a full range of emotions in the young soldier. Chief among them, disbelief.

"Clutch, Grunt, and Steeler returned to us not long after you were recruited," said Hawk, reaching the end of this implausible tale. "They've been instructed not to tell the others of what they saw there, and as men of honor, I expect they'll obey orders. As will you."

A moment passed before Jinx, still dumbfounded, recognized her turn to speak. "Absolutely, sir. But, no offense, it is an economy-sized secret to be keeping from, well, the entire flippin' world."

"I have faith. You and secrets seem to go hand in hand."

A faint smile appeared on her lips. "Fair point. But, can I know more about this world? Way it sounds, the Baroness instigates the Cobra Civil War, both sides are decimated, and life begins to turn back normal…"

"Correct. So far as we knew, at least. When Falcon and Sgt. Slaughter arrived there, they had no immediate means of contacting us. Eventually—months later—their scientist friend developed a communications device that hit the right frequency."

"And that's when we discovered this world had gone to seed again." Her lips straightened as she finished the thought; only an expression of grief and anger. "That the Cobra-La creeps had surfaced there, too."

Hawk nodded, solemnly. "Affirmative. And it's taken weeks, but luckily, your teammates have located the M.A.R.S. prototype that sent Falcon and the others there in the first place. Now, it's had a peripatetic existence since Destro allowed them to use it, shipped from location to location, hiding out with some shell organization we've yet to officially link to M.A.R.S.—but thank the heavens we have the thing, and have deduced how to use it."

"Sounds great. And, General, I appreciate this opportunity to aid my fellow Rawhide," responded Jinx, formally, choosing to play along with Hawk's game. Refusing to vocalize the sense of elation that washed over her moments earlier, when he confirmed the lieutenant was still alive.

"But, let's be clear on this, your mission is to return Falcon, Slaughter, and the two civilians to our world. That is your _sole_ objective. Fighting a war on another world, one we can't even acknowledge exists, cannot be our priority." Hawk leaned closer, spoke with a tenor that indicated he wouldn't be tolerating any backtalk on the subject. "And if you're thinking of resisting me on this, I can promise you all of the arguments, pro and con, have already been made. This is a call that goes all the way up to the C-in-C, and I've been assured he's lost a fair amount of sleep over all of it."

Jinx hadn't even considered the implications, not until Hawk broached the subject. But she could see both sides of the debate, hypothetically. Wasn't entirely certain where she'd side. "Fair enough. Now, hate to backtrack, but do we know _why_ Steeler left with the other Joes? I get why Clutch and Grunt chose to return home, thinking the war was over. But wasn't Steeler crucial in turning their Baroness to our side? Weren't they, ah, well—"

A squeak to her left interrupted Jinx's thought, the one so awkward she wasn't certain she should even finish it. The door to General Hawk's private chambers slowly opened. Out stepped Steeler.

"Why don't we ask the man himself?" said Hawk, attempting to hide his own amusement.

"Thought my ears were burnin'."

"Steeler!" Jinx had to restrain herself from leaping from her seat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but—"

"You didn't want to get caught out there without the proper intel." Steeler, typical sad sack expression on his face, took the seat next to Jinx. "Can't blame ya. Listen, it's not an easy story to tell. Ana and I…ever have something you thought was real, only to have it be anything but?"

Her thoughts reflexively turned to Falcon. A year had passed since his disappearance; both he and the Sarge assumed dead. But a nagging doubt persisted, told her not to assume anything. Wasn't much of a comfort, though. If anything, it made her angry. Because if the mope were still alive, then why hadn't he reached out?

"Maybe."

She tried to forgive herself; to keep in mind she couldn't have foreseen _alternate realities_ as a possible explanation.

"Ana fell for the other-me. Their Steeler. Poor chump, like the rest of their Joes, croaked before we arrived." Steeler tried to continue, but only a choked grunt escaped. Finally, he was able to piece together the next words. "She knew I wasn't truly him—recognized my tat was on the wrong arm—but that didn't seem to change anything. Should've known it was too sudden…eerie, in a way. But I got caught up in it all, decided what we had was close enough to the real thing."

The room grew silent, waiting for Steeler to continue. He knew there was a detail he was omitting, a suspicion he hadn't yet confirmed. The Joe debated speaking this obscene thought, but ultimately erred on the side of caution.

Facing only his lap, Steeler managed to keep going. "And it was going great, up until Destro bought it in their Cobra Civil War. Ana wasn't the same after that. Began to look at me different; began to let a bit of that mean streak show."

"A bit of that Baroness began to show," said Jinx. She couldn't help herself.

Steeler wasn't offended. "Exactly. She ended things. Told me in this new world, she couldn't see a place for us. I wanted to argue, to fight for what we had. But a part of me knew she was right. An alternate version of Dr. Renault's invention had been discovered by then. I talked things out with Clutch and Grunt, and we made the decision to return home."

"So why couldn't Sarge and Falcon do the same?"

"Had to guess? I'd say some bad actor destroyed the thing."

Hawk gave Steeler a second to continue. When it became obvious he didn't wish to finish, the general stepped in. "Steeler, perhaps you should tell her who you last saw with Dr. Renault's device."

Steeler nodded. Answered in a monotone. "The person who owned the device, who arranged as a final favor to return us home…it was Ana."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

DESTRO CLICKED OFF his cellular unit. The mogul's companion—fresh from his weekly trim and touch-up, courtesy of the unsung M.A.R.S. cosmetology unit—wasn't hiding that obnoxious smirk.

Destro missed the days of the cloth hood.

"Something amiss in paradise, Destro?" asked the companion as they rounded the corner, approaching Mindbender's former lab. The lisp, however, Destro was glad to be rid of. A sentence like that on the Commander's tongue, once upon a time, would've been a torturous experience for anyone appreciative of proper diction.

"Our dear Baroness was prepared to do something foolish," answered Destro, humoring his companion's attempt at small talk. "Something I've been suspecting she'd try for a while now."

"And why stop her?"

Destro considered his response for a moment. "We must be judicious in our targets. And I feel as if the subject of the lovely's ire is…undeserving. Let's allow her to have her peace."

"The Romanian was quite skilled—to resurrect the tiniest amount of humanity from 'Leigh' or 'Ana' or what-have-you." The smirk widened. "To think, once her cold heart gave even _you_ frostbite."

A memory Destro would carry with him forever. The spores had been launched into orbit, placed in position to wipe out the whole of humanity. His fellow Cobra operatives were in varying states of shock and repulsion—all uncertain on how to digest this genocidal act.

His lovely Baroness, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased with the experience. Even labeled the disbursement of the lethal spores as "beautiful."

What a word to use. Destro had long suspected a foulness deep in his Baroness' soul. A bitterness spawned by the tragedies of her youth. It befitted her work with the organization. It was the depth of her hatred, though, the toxic anarchism that he only then realized motivated her actions, which gave him pause.

"A situation we wouldn't have found ourselves in, if you'd only been honest with us from the beginning, 'Commander.'"

The sarcastic bent of that word was very much deliberate. Cobra Commander had been allowed to maintain the title, at Destro's mercy, in the latest evolution of Cobra. And the mogul rarely missed an opportunity to remind him it was only ceremonial. That his responsibilities in the M.A.R.S.-funded incarnation of the group would be quite different.

"Yes, yes," the Commander scoffed, typing in the entry code for the lab. "If only I'd revealed the secrets of my past to you earlier, you would've realized your girlfriend had become an utterly sadistic nihilist with a heart of coal—as opposed to the everyday murderous student activist/terrorist you initially fell for."

The door sliced open, releasing the air conditioned chill from the lab's interior. Destro maintained his own cool, but was not amused by his ally's joke. In the immediate days following the Himalayan incident, he made an effort to pretend things were the same. That he didn't see his love in a drastically different light.

The lie could not be maintained. And as he watched their organization wrestle with numerous complications—power struggles, money mismanagement, devastated morale—the decision to leave seemed to have been made for him. He left in the night; silently, with no goodbye.

Regrets caused more than one sleepless evening. When she reappeared months later, it seemed as if a subconscious prayer had been answered. Of course, "she" wasn't quite the lady he remembered…

"That scheme your friends devised—you realize it was always destined to fail, do you not?"

"How so?" asked the Commander, stepping with enthusiasm towards the ultramodern armature residing in the center of the laboratory. The uninformed might have viewed it as a coffin from some alien society. Both antediluvian and futuristic, if that could be believed. Cold, shiny steel gripping the edges of a glass sarcophagus. Inside, a freshly preserved body—its only blemishes, the tiny nicks populating his flesh.

"I was caught unaware in the Himalayas. A situation I rarely, and I must emphasize that word, ever find myself." Destro winced as the Commander used a surgical knife to remove another insignificant portion of the body's skin. "Your companions in Cobra-La…what they represented…I needed time to formulate the proper response to the situation."

The Commander delicately placed his stolen ounce of flesh onto a thin, flat piece of glass. It began to glow red, liquefying the skin ample. "I take it you objected to their plans to mutate all humanity; to turn your brethren into mindless brutes?"

"It did cause a bit of unease, I'll confess. And, to grant myself some peace of mind, I made it my business to study our purloined Broadcast Energy Transmitter."

"What did you think you could do with it?" the Commander questioned, removing a serological pipette from his jacket pocket and drawing up the fleshy fluid.

Destro shook his head, amused his companion could even ask the question. "Cause it to self-destruct, naturally. To erupt in a ball of flames before its transmission would reach a meter overhead; let alone beam out into the atmosphere."

 _Wouldn't have happened with a solar flare…_ thought the Commander reflexively. "And why didn't you do this, oh noble Destro?"

"The moment, sadly, never presented itself. If your idol—Golobulus, was that his name?—hadn't been so relentless in his execution, if only I'd had another day, I promise you I would've put a stop to that insanity."

The Commander had stepped to a nearby wall cabinet, removed a syringe from the packet. "Even at the risk of your own life? Even with the assured protection of Cobra-La's ice dome?"

The mogul did not answer _._

"Ah, a difficult question. Fortunately for you, the Joes were able to act as the heroes of that day. I imagine…if, say, some remnants of Cobra-La still existed, if they attempted a similar scheme…" said the Commander playfully, injecting the syringe into his neck.

"I'd ensure it was stopped," answered Destro, cold. "Naturally."

The Commander's face began to wobble, the cells dancing, taking the form of…his existing face. The flawless one he'd already stolen from Serpentor's body months earlier. "Just as you've ensured the Baroness doesn't make—from _your_ perspective—a fatal mistake?"

These chromosomal touch-ups were a necessity, however. The face of Colin Kristofer was no longer advantageous for the Commander, yet the young soldier's DNA remained quite tenacious. Without these routine injections, the soldier's proud jawline and Roman nose had a habit of reappearing at inopportune moments.

Destro handed the Commander his mirror. "I always have eyes and ears open, 'Commander.' More so than ever in recent years." The implication of those words was lost on the Commander, distracted by his deep burgundy hair, blue eyes, and immaculate cheekbones. "If it's become my responsibility to make certain fellow members of our triumvirate stay on the straight and narrow—relatively speaking—then so be it."

He spoke with conviction. Even if a few issues lingered, if his love required an occasional nudge in the proper direction, Destro couldn't withhold his pride. The classic Cobra Triad, now reunited.

The Commander lowered the mirror, made certain his tie was perfectly straight. "Oh, Destro, you have nothing to fear from me. I've seen the light of free minds and free markets, don't you recall?"

"Your fries and shakes epiphany…yes."

He returned the mirror to Destro. Spoke with a booming voice, one made to fill the largest of auditoriums. "No more terroristic mischief from me…Mister Jason Bacall of Mechanicsburg, Iowa…and I'd appreciate your vote!"

Under Destro's orders, the Commander had tinkered with his DNA overwrite code. Found a way to alter the vocal cords, the curve of the tongue, to subdue that ever-present sibilant impediment. It wouldn't be appropriate for a Congressman to be _hiss_ ing his words like that.

Fitting, but not appropriate.

Destro stepped to his companion, removed a single strand of auburn hair from his shoulder. "Save it for the great unwashed, my dear commander."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

THERE IS ALWAYS A MOMENT, after the last shot of a battle is fired. A moment of complete and utter silence…before the cries of the victors swell, mingling with the moans of their quarry.

"Yooo Joe!" Falcon bellowed, fist in the air. "This one's for you, Duke!"

He meant every word. Around him, the broken bodies of over a dozen Cobra-La bug-drones. Genetically augmented super-soldiers, according to intel, bred to serve their masters. Equipped with insectoid armor, tailored to withstand intense heat or pressure.

It also gave the drones a crunchy, popping sound when you stomped on the sorry punks. Falcon was well familiar with the noise.

Standing behind Falcon, Dr. Brian Cooper and his wife Diane. Their pride and joy, Bobby, had been dispatched to St. Louis to aid the Sarge. No, Falcon had to correct himself. Young, gangly Bobby had evolved into Robert. And in the past year, that skinny little pencilneck had proven himself a darn fine soldier.

This abandoned industrial park, or what remained of it now, was the latest home for the resistance. Falcon had taken his assignment seriously, to stay behind, never allowing Dr. Cooper out of sight. He'd spent the previous five weeks, up until today, with no action to speak of. A fate the Falcon of old would've viewed as unjust punishment.

Not a word of complaint was spoken. Falcon actually became quite the Pinochle expert, thanks to Diane.

Dr. Cooper and his beloved wife were both silent, unsettled by the violence. Falcon did everything he could to shield them from the worst of it, but it'd been a hellacious battle. He turned, removed that grin from his face. Their shellshocked expressions hinted that they'd seen too much, that taking joy in this battle just couldn't come so easily.

Falcon placed a firm, concerned hand on Dr. Cooper's shoulder. "Doc, I know this got pretty hairy. But, for now, the worst of it is over. We'll move you to a new safehouse, make sure you and Diane are—"

Diane lifted her hand. Spoke with the steely reserve he'd come to expect from the lady. "It's okay, Lieutenant. We know you'll take care of us. I just hope…" She drew in the chaos around her, seeing a very different sight than her protector. "I just hope this all ends soon."

When Cobra-La launched its assault on this world, Dr. Cooper stepped up, joined the rebellion. Used not only his natural smarts, but the documents passed on to him via his doppelganger, Falcon's old sparring buddy. Mindbender knew his archives would enable Dr. Cooper to complete the operation, save his (their) boy. Couldn't have guessed Cooper would be inspired by the info; would become a "mad scientist" himself, only one committed to benefiting this world.

Falcon took in Diane's words, was washed over by a sense of both pride and sadness. Cobra-La had staked out their claim all across North America. Latest intel had their pet thug, Nemesis Enforcer, lording over the remains of Detroit. Sarge and the rest of the resistance were doing what they could, but they remained a comparative handful. Someone was going to have to step up. The earth couldn't withstand this madness much longer.

The lieutenant excused himself, stepped down the rusted metal steps of the platform. He passed more bodies on his way down; mercifully, none of them belonging to his allies. On the first floor was his back-up team, all the way from across the cosmos. Three previous occupants of this world, Steeler, Clutch, and Grunt, all heroes of the rebellion. Joining them, Flint, Lady Jaye, and the woman who, upon sight, immediately revived that earlier sense of joy.

"Jinx…" Falcon said with a smirk, arms wide. "Just can't shake you off. Not even in another world."

He'd spotted all of them, but especially her, during the battle. Had to restrain himself from dashing past a battalion of the bug nasties, to keep his focus on protecting the Coopers. Had to keep telling himself they'd make it through this, that they could all be reunited soon enough.

She went in for the hug—playfully elbowed his tummy instead. "That's what you get for sneaking off for an entire flippin' year."

They locked eyes. Their teammates sensed the rapport, the denied intimacy. Made more than a few quite uncomfortable.

"Been busy?" asked Flint, stepping between them, hand extended.

Falcon shook the hand, offered similar greetings to all the Joes. "You could say that. There was only a small team of us here. Didn't know the La-creeps had found us out." He shook his head. "We're blasted lucky you guys arrived when you did."

"Shame your world's version of the Renault device is missing," said Steeler, eyeing his surroundings. "Say, I thought I saw an old acquaintance fightin' by your side. Got an _Abominable Dr. Phibes_ vibe to him?" Falcon opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted before one syllable got out. "Stevens, right?"

Falcon nodded, pointed to the storage room to his left. "Bet he's with Owens and King, cleaning up some of this mess." For company's sake, Falcon chose not to specify what drone soldier "clean-up" entailed.

Steeler was gone in a flash. Falcon turned to the others, amused. "Think that guy owes him money?"

"About that," said Lady Jaye tentatively. "Steeler's told us some…interesting things about this 'Stevens' character."

Falcon caught the reference immediately. "He's the face from my dreams—the guy I nearly murdered in the Hamptons, right?"

"So you know about his Cobra connections?" asked Jinx.

Falcon shrugged. "A different world here, darlin'. I admit I had to keep my wits about me the first time the resistance introduced us…but, far as I can tell, the 'Stevens' of this world is committed to the cause." _Bit of a creep, though,_ Falcon had to add, mentally. "Heck, if I can accept this world's Mindbender, I can work with some escapee from the county fair."

THAT ESCAPEE FROM THE COUNTY FAIR had been led outside the facility by Steeler. The soldier did his best, presenting an amiable front, doling out just enough bull to coax the Romanian outside.

And, within a second of ushering the man away from his allies, Steeler executed his move. Had Stevens pinned against the wall of the facility, his shirt bunched up in Steeler's fists.

"Don't play games with me," Steeler warned, his intense, glacial eyes broadcasting the rage. "I might not have all the answers, but I got a good idea who you are now."

"You know my story," answered Stevens, more amused by the display than intimidated. "I was the Baroness' aide-de-camp, one of her few confidantes. When I saw the effects of this war—when we _both_ recognized the depravity of Cobra's rule—we turned to the rebellion. My superior developed certain feelings for your alternate self…was quite devastated when his time came."

Steeler gripped the shirt tighter. "There's more to it than that. I want you to tell me why Ana's personality flipped. Why she became a different person the moment she found out Destro—"

The Romanian released a wheezy, derisive laugh. "You're asking me to explain the vagaries of a female's heart? Sorry, soldier. Not even the Bard could accomplish that much."

He wasn't expecting Steeler's fist to enter his stomach. "I want you to tell me what you did to her!" the soldier screamed.

Collecting himself on the asphalt, the Romanian blurted out, "You brute! Don't you realize we're on the same side?"

When Stevens was on two legs again, Steeler offered him a second round of five-finger encouragement. "Tell me! Tell me why she became someone else!"

"My friend, think of what you're asking," Stevens responded, staying on the ground this time. "Do you truly wish to know? To hear that the resistance was desperate, that it employed the services of someone men of honor would normally shun?" As he spoke, that exasperating arrogance returned to his voice. "That he used his illicit talents to worm his way into Cobra, to plant a certain suggestion in the lady's mind? To manipulate her into dissociating all affection for her true love?"

Steeler was down on the Romanian's level now, hands on both of his knees. "And after you played with her mind, got her to forget all about Destro…"

Stevens, cradling his sore gut with both hands, managed a smile. "Perhaps she fell for a blue-collar, sandy haired ruffian, all on her own." His tone wasn't subtle; broadcasted the sarcasm, his insincerity. "Perhaps…"

"Uh-huh." Steeler had to recognize that a traditional beating wouldn't be enough to realign this twerp's personality. It was not the only realization dawning on the soldier. "And when that poor joker died…"

"Oh, he served as quite the martyr," Stevens replied, eerie grin still plastered on his mug. "And the Baroness, she grew even more committed to the rebellion. Then, well, who could've expected a _twin_ of this blue-collar, sandy haired ruffian to appear…"

Steeler nodded, disgusted. "And he worked out just fine. Played the role he didn't know he was supposed to be playin', up until something broke that programming."

"Something quite traumatic, yes. Surely you know, only the loss of your _true_ love could elicit such heartache." Defiant, the Romanian shifted to a different kind of smirk. "So, now that you've broached the subject…where _is_ the lovely Baroness?"

"REALLY?" asked Falcon, quite amused. An early autumn wind was blowing through, here on the roof of the industrial complex. Another reason for Falcon and his guest to bundle up closer. "How's he get up there and give speeches with that ssssilly lisssp he's got?"

"That, we still haven't found out," said Jinx. "But, yeah, the head snake has gotten into politics. Although, it seems as if ol' Destro is the one calling the shots now."

"Couldn't blame the snakes for making that change. Destro always seemed to be the real brains behind it all."

She rested her head on Falcon's shoulder. "Heh. They think they've gone respectable now. They don't know that we're on to them. That we're gonna make sure the Commander's humiliated at his next rally, right before Beach Head and his squad pop 'im."

A Joe's idea of sweet nothings.

"Sounds like fun. Wish I could be there."

Jinx pulled away, indignant. "Oh, 'wish' nothin', darling. The Renault device is all ready to go on the other side. You will be."

Falcon held a breath. "Jinx…listen, about that…"

"No. Don't tell me—"

"This world, it needs fighters," he said with an apologetic, but resigned, tone. "It needs _Joes,_ and practically all of us are gone."

"I knew you'd pull this." She was ready to slug the jerk. "Hawk did, too. Falcon—no. You're not doing this."

Falcon wouldn't look her way. "I have to stay, Jinx. I've already mapped out the next assignment."

"You're insane." She attempted to hold back the next words. Didn't try hard enough. "I know why you're doing this. You want another shot at those freaks. Want to keep paying them back for what their science experiment did to Duke!"

The words stung. Falcon refused to acknowledge them, tried to present a purely rational and ethical case. "The La-creeps have taken Detroit. I understand if the Sarge wants to leave, but—"

"This isn't your world, Falcon. People need you back home. _I_ need—"

Falcon turned, placed a finger on her lips. Kissed her. "Point made."

It was a dry kiss. Lacking the passion of the one they shared earlier, that cold night in the mountains.

Jinx said nothing in response. Falcon addressed the silence. "So, I guess the next step is picking up the Sarge and making our exit?"

She pulled away. Looked towards the sunset. "The two civilians you traveled with, Diane and Robert. We should be bringing them home, too. I have a feeling, though…"

"Yeah. Truth is, they've found their family here. I know what they've lost in their own world; _our_ world." Falcon thought of Dr. Cooper, the friend he never thought he'd make, of the hurt the poor man once carried with him. Of the indescribable joy—and disbelief—he experienced the night Falcon and the Sarge introduced him to their charges. "Sending them back would be awful cruel, Jinx."

"Orders are to at least give them the option," she answered with little emotion. "Choice is ultimately theirs, though."

"Good to know."

A CONVOY OF FIVE VEHICLES carried the resistance and their temporary allies west towards St. Louis. Falcon, King, and Flint shared an armored van, liberated from a Cobra-owned bank during the final days of their initial reign.

Falcon had driving duties for most of the night. He bugged off at around eleven, asked King to relieve him early. If Flint weren't already studying the back of his heavy eyelids, he'd have caught the sound of the lieutenant scratching away at a yellow legal pad.

The first letter was to the Sarge. Expressing his appreciation for saving his career, what felt like a lifetime ago. For giving him the tools he needed to finally be more than the screw-up his brother feared he'd be. Remorse was expressed, once again, for the fates of those men at Camp Alpha. The lieutenant thanked his friend for finding the capacity for forgiveness. He encouraged the Sarge to go back home, to enjoy that reunion with his wife and girls.

The next was to his mother. He knew the axiom about soldiers always lying to their mamas in letters. He wrote in generalities; kept him more honest. The lieutenant promised he'd do everything in his power to return home—when the time was right. He wrote of Duke, her boy Conrad, and his ambition to always make that soldier proud.

A note to General Hawk. Thanking him for the opportunity to prove his sorry self. Apologizing for disobeying orders once again.

Jinx's letter was the hardest to complete. Or even start. Could only think to write one simple line: _I'm sorry_. Thought it the best two words to offer her. As the lieutenant folded the paper, he reconsidered. Clicked his pen and jotted off an addendum. A humble request that she look after Mama Falcone until his return—which, he promised her, was coming. Someday.

More words came. Poured out, really. Falcon fessed up—admitted she was right earlier. Partially. The revenge, though, Falcon was convinced was about more than his ego. He thanked Jinx for never losing hope. For literally being the girl of his dreams. If she refused to ever forgive him for this, he'd understand. But he pleaded with her to remember she loved him for being a stubborn lug in the first place.

A final, quick note to Flint. Suggesting, with all the nuance Falcon was known for, that he pull his head out of his rectum. Recognize what everyone can see, that Lady Jaye is a good woman and he'd be a fool to chase her away. And, in his closing words, a request and an apology.

 _Please make sure these letters are delivered. Let everyone know that I'm doing this with no malice. That you goldbrickers are my heroes. I just have one last mission to complete…sorry to duck out like this. I mean it._

 _Yo Joe._

The envelopes were placed on Flint's sleeping chest. The lieutenant stepped to the front and pointed ahead; suggested King stop for gas. King's unkempt beard didn't hide that knowing grin. He pulled over at the service station, clasped his hand with the lieutenant's.

From one palm to another passed the keys to the chopper, a ride confiscated years ago from an Aussie biker with a particularly rotten attitude. During moves, the resistance housed it in a trailer attached to the van.

In under five minutes, a cone of yellow light was cutting through the dark. Its destination: Detroit.

The lieutenant will often find himself too busy to sleep in the coming months. But when he finds relief from the bedlam, quiet moments in the dark, his dreams are peaceful ones.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Kendall taught himself how to program a VCR at the age of five, determined to never miss an episode of _G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero_. He's been writing about reputable and disreputable pop culture for over ten years at Not Blog X and CBR, and has finished three novels featuring his own creations. Fans of the 1990s alt-rock movement, washed up comic book professionals, and a divorced ghost-hunting couple might want to sign up for updates on his Amazon author page, or check him out on Twitter.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY

This is it. The final entry.

In an ideal world, this would've been published under the Kindle Worlds banner. That was not to be. Still, I felt an obligation to finish the story, and the mental gymnastics required to pull these threads together turned out to be quite the writing challenge.

Did I fall on my face? That's for you to decide. I didn't set out to do anything this ambitious—the alternate reality world from Marty Pasko's two-parter, the conflicting backstories for Cobra Commander, the transition of Storm Shadow from villain to hero in the post-Sunbow years—but here we are. Initially, I only planned on dramatizing some ideas I had for a hypotheticalfilm sequel. I'm talking live-action, here.

I despised the first film, thought the second was great, and had some thoughts on how the third could retcon away some of the stink of the original. With some encouragement, I embarked on my first Kindle Worlds entry. Had an outline fully prepared.

Then, I read the stipulations laid down by Hasbro. No acknowledgement of the Paramount film continuity. Huh.

I'd already publicly declared (or hinted strongly) I'd be writing this thing, though. So, what other _Joe_ ideas did I have? Some thoughts about how a hypothetical comic following the 1987 animated film might go. Truthfully, only two scenes I'd played around with years earlier. One, Snake Eyes training the Rawhide recruits introduced in the movie. The other, an image of Falcon sitting anxiously at Duke's bedside, reflecting on his past as a screw-up and vowing to do better.

From there, I began. One idea _did_ survive my initial outline for a hypothetical _G. I. Joe 3._ I _hated_ the portrayal of Cobra Commander as a damaged vet, so I worked out a way to reveal this as a lie. As a front adopted by the Commander to disguise his true identity, and possibly smear a young soldier and gain a propaganda victory. Much of that made its way into the first novel, told through the story of the Baroness' origin. (The "reformed" Baroness we see at the end of the first film would've become the "Leigh" introduced in the first book.)

 **You Can't Do That!**

Now divorced from Kindle Worlds (and any royalty payments… _ahem_ ), I am free to violate the restrictions laid down from Hasbro. I'm not interested in using sex or profanity in a _Joe_ story, so there's none of that here. However, some of the rules were a bit stifling.

The 1980s Joes based on celebrities were banned by Hasbro. That means The Sarge couldn't truly appear in the previous format. Also, no crossovers with the Transformers canon. Well, I'm still playing coy here, but Sunbow fans have surely guessed where Destro's headquarters comes from. (There's a "lost tale" out there of Destro claiming that sea base, during the phantom Transformers years.) Hasbro was also adamant that no character be described as nude in any way. Serpentor "arose" nude in the cartoon, though. Plenty more nudity here.

Finally, there's the famous bit about no portrayals of Snake Eyes as a New York Yankees fan. It might be fun to just toss that in, but I never truly considered it. I'm assuming it'd just come across as gratuitous, or as a total non-sequitur for anyone who didn't catch the reference.

 **A Bad Girl Gone Good**

I don't give the movie producers any credit for possibly homaging the classic two-parter "Worlds without End," with their portrayal of a Baroness going good. I'm going to guess it was just standard hack writing, a way for the screenwriters to resolve the tacked-on romantic subplot and give the hero a personal victory at the end.

Writing a Baroness who's being forced to face her conscience, however, does immediately evoke memories of that story…if you're working within the Sunbow universe. And looking back on those episodes, you have to wonder why Baroness seems to be the only character with a totally inverted personality in this world. How did such a decent lady end up with a high-ranking position within Cobra? And what about her relationship with Destro?

I wouldn't address these questions simply for the sake of continuity—but if there _is_ a story there worth telling, I want to find it. I felt there was a way to connect the Good Girl from my story with the Good Girl from the two-parter—and touch upon some of the post-1985 characters we didn't see in "Worlds." Actually, given how genuinely sweet the alternate Baroness appeared to be in that story…I almost feel guilty about what I've done here.

 **Silk Purse, Sow's Ear**

In my earliest outline, I'd planned on picking up with Steeler, Grunt, and Clutch still in this alternate world, fighting the good fight against Cobra. Looking online, however, I discovered all three of these characters had brief appearances in the 1987 movie.

Now, for the bulk of the show, you never saw Steeler, Grunt, and Clutch in any group shots. The producers had written them off to another world, and admirably, they stuck to that. On their primitive spreadsheet listing Joe characters and their appearances, a line must've been drawn following "Worlds without End"— no more Steeler, Grunt, and Clutch.

Learning they'd goofed during the movie was confusing. Then, I remember Buzz Dixon's comment that _every_ Joe had to appear in the film. Actual Joes; none of the nondescript background Joes from the earlier episodes. Those spots were filled, because even if there wouldn't be a speaking part, the movie was going to work _everyone_ in. Including, I guess, three guys who shouldn't be there.

I could've ignored those split-second cameos. Briefly, I considered it. But, if I'm staying true to the premise, that means I can't contradict the Sunbow canon. That means I'm obligated to not only address their appearance on our world, but to logically tie it into the story. Fine. Challenge accepted.

 **Reference Section**

I personally can't stand cutesy references to other media properties or obscure parts of the canon that take you out of the story. Hopefully, all of _my_ cutesy references to other media properties or obscure parts of the canon are far less irritating.

Fans of a certain videogame franchise (which is effectively dead, regardless of what its owner believes) will instantly place Cobra Commander's prison. Some of the characters appearing here are so obscure, I've only recently even discovered their existence, even though they do go back to the 1980s. (Quarrel? Sure, I'll go with it.) And keep an eye on the names of the Joe resistance fighters at the end. Those monikers weren't chosen arbitrarily.

 **Embrace the La**

No more playing games this time. I'm outright naming Cobra-La. They're still not the focus of the story, but the characters are no longer dancing around their names. Hopefully, no one's too traumatized by the end.

Ideally, this has all come together, even the pesky Cobra-La material. (Seriously, why wasn't Cobra Commander using all of that advanced bio-tech during his years attempting to conquer the world? How does a H.I.S.S. tank in any way resemble Cobra-La's organic technology of bugs and worms?) If I succeeded or failed, please let me know.

I don't foresee any more of these Joe novels in the future, but hopefully you guys can be convinced to pick up my other prose works. And if the license owners were to call one day, seeking to make this an official continuation of the Sunbow canon…well, of course I'd say yes. If you want to start a letter writing campaign or something, I won't stop you.


End file.
